


Entrapment

by holmesian_love



Series: Extraction [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:48:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 63,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28499316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmesian_love/pseuds/holmesian_love
Summary: After his recovery from the extraction, Sherlock is eager to get back to some light case work.But waking up at a crime scene with no memory of how he got there will shake John and Sherlock's new relationship to the core. A series of murders follow that will send John and Greg on a path to try and clear Sherlock's name.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Extraction [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087607
Comments: 81
Kudos: 46
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherlockWatson_Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/gifts).



> Part 2 of EXTRACTION written as part of HolmesCon2020
> 
> For Kat: for supporting me from the very beginning, to write, to be proud of what I write and for challenging me to work towards a casefic.
> 
> I hope it lives up to your expectations. I’ve loved the challenge of writing it!

The first thing he noticed was the ringing. Something on the edges of his consciousness was _ringing_ , trying to urge him awake. He couldn’t work out what it was, _where_ _he was_. But opening his eyes was a far cry from what he wanted to do right now. The incessant, unreasonably loud ringing of… his _phone_. Phone. The word forming in his head as if he’d never used it before, the letters changing colour and size like some sort of nauseating animation, trying to communicate with his subconscious. The buzzing from his coat pocket was beginning to send sympathetic vibrations via his bones, up and down his crumpled frame, as it lay on the hard, cold floor.

The second thing he noticed was the pain; the _throbbing_ of his head. Like an entire construction site had set up camp inside his skull. Like a jackhammer and a stump driver were thumping, _thudding_ , in sync with each other, making his skull bone pulsate. He could barely concentrate on the fact that his phone was ringing, and yet there it was, setting his nerves on edge even more. Before daring to consider opening his eyes, he let his tongue slip out and wet his lips. His whole mouth felt dry, the back of his tongue almost glued to the soft palate, the sheer effort of moving it hurting muscles that couldn’t possibly be connected to tongue movement. His lips were dried, cracked and like sandpaper, his tongue doing very little to remedy that.

Reluctantly, he allowed his heavy eyelids to slowly open, flickering between allowing light in and closing quickly shut again, in little grabs, not wanting to fully commit. Finally, the ringing stopped, although, frustratingly, the throbbing did not. He closed his eyes again fully, sinking into the darkness and quiet again with a soft sigh of relief. Before he could enjoy it though, the phone chimed up again. 

_Some annoying human really needs to reach me._

He groaned, only to realise that using his voice hurt as well. His throat _and_ his skull. Perfect. He reached into his pocket to grab the phone, grudgingly, without opening his eyes, fumbling until he could find the button to answer it and bring it to his ear.

“Hmmm?” he moaned, his eyes squeezing shut tighter at the effort of making the sound.

“Sherlock! Oh thank god, Sherlock. Where are you?” John’s frantic voice brought him slightly closer to awareness. It was the only voice that could grab his attention.

“Hmmm?” he questioned again, moving the phone away from his ear for a moment, trying to ignore the added throbbing from John’s loud voice.

“It’s John, where are you?”

_Of course it’s you, John_ , he thought to himself. Realising he hadn’t actually spoken aloud, he tried to make words form but, “Hmansfbiqelj?” was all that came out.

“Are you ok?” John asked, more desperately.

“Hmmm,” was all Sherlock could offer.

“Sherlock. What’s going on?” John pressed more seriously.

“Mmm fnnn,” he managed, before gently clearing his throat and trying again. “I’m _fine_ John. I… eyes closed… didn’t… can’t…” was all he could muster.

“Sherlock. You’re scaring me. Where are you? I’ll come to you,” John said earnestly.

“No. _no_. I just, hang on… hang _on_. Just give me a minute, okay?” Sherlock implored, realising he didn’t actually know where he was, or what was happening himself. He wasn’t going to let John come barging into this until he had fully assessed his situation. 

Sherlock took in a deep breath and let it out again. He forced himself to open his eyes slowly, but fully this time. The effort of that small movement was exhausting in itself. He took in the room. He didn’t recognise it at all. The light was… dull. He couldn’t work out the time of day. It wasn’t broad daylight, nor was it night. _Maybe dusk or dawn?_

“What time is it?” he asked John.

“It’s four in the morning. I’ve been looking for you… for _hours_ ,” John said, his voice making a slightly choked sound. “Where are you Sherlock?”

“Hmmmm,” was all Sherlock managed absently, as he squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to get his brain to stutter back online. _What am I doing here?_

As he took in another breath of air to try and wake up, the third thing registered. _Blood_. 

He smelt blood.

“John…” he began nervously.

“Sherlock?” John sounded alert, and worried. He knew that when Sherlock sounded unsure, it was a very bad sign.

Sherlock tried to frantically catalogue everything around the room and in his mind palace, to try and work out why he was in this situation, here in this place. Wherever _here_ was. Nothing was coming to him. He opened his eyes again, forced himself to sit up, groaning as he did from the effort. He looked himself over. 

“I just need to put the phone down…” he said, before placing it on the ground.

“No, Sherlock, wait! What’s going on? Sherlock!” John’s voice carried even as Sherlock placed the phone on the ground, his constant calling out only serving to make Sherlock’s heart rate climb with his own worry. He didn’t like not knowing. He didn’t like being confused. John clearly didn’t like it either.

He patted at his clothes, checking for injuries. Opening his shirt, he checked his chest for any injuries there. His hands then went to his head, searching through his curls, and then returning down in front of his face to check his fingers for blood. No head injury. _Where was all this blood from then?_ There was blood all over his clothes, but he didn’t appear to be injured in any way, not that he could see or feel, at least. Aside from a very sore head, there didn’t seem to be blood pouring out of him anywhere. 

_So whose blood is this?_

Frustrated and slightly excited by the prospect of a new puzzle, he slowly pushed himself to his feet, groaning as he did, stumbling at first to find his feet under himself, and that’s when he saw it: _the body_. 

And so much more blood. 

Sherlock picked the phone back up in a daze, his eyes never leaving the body on the bed. “John, I may need to call you back…” he said, his voice almost trancelike as he registered the situation more fully.

“No! No, no, no!” John yelled frantically. “Don’t hang up, don’t hang up! What’s going on? Let me come and help. Where are you?!” Sherlock could hear he was fraught with worry. 

“Mmmm… don’t know,” he said, his voice too floaty, too vague.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” John demanded.

“Mmm, I think that’s pretty self-explanatory isn’t it, John? If you need _that_ clarified, you really have reached a whole new level of stupid I’ve never attributed to you before.” 

He winced at himself for being so harsh. The frustration of his situation had made his nerves frazzled and his patience was waning. Surely John knew that he never meant what he said when he was in this sort of mood… _didn’t he?_ He could hear John let out a gush of air on the other end of the phone, and Sherlock could imagine him standing with one hand over his face in frustration. For a brief moment he smiled to himself. He did get a sick thrill annoying John sometimes, but this time he didn’t mean to. _This time_ he was genuinely scared.

“Thanks very much,” John replied with a huff. “Sherlock, how can you _not_ know where you are?”

“I just… I don’t know. I’ll work it out. I just need a minute to find out where this is,” he said, and he noticed his voice faltering. He was giving off none of the confidence he had wanted to convey.

“Sherlock, what happened to you?” John tried one more time. 

Sherlock didn’t answer. He took in the body and the room one more time, turning on the spot as he checked his surroundings again, before looking down at his clothes. _So much blood_. 

He shut his eyes tight and took in another deep breath. “John… you may need to call Lestrade.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was pacing on the far side of the room beside the window, wearing a hole in the floor from the repetitive movement. He bit at his thumbnail nervously, supporting his elbow with the other hand, his arm crossing his body protectively, his eyes unfocussed on the people around him. 

John watched from the other side of the room, concerned, but trying to listen to Lestrade. He was angry at himself for the argument that had resulted in Sherlock leaving the flat in a huff. After weeks of arguing over his readiness to go out on cases, John was now not entirely thrilled to have been right. He had told himself he was being overly cautious, unnecessarily overprotective, but even with his own wild imaginings, he had never really expected it to end like this, caught up in… _in god knows what this is_. 

John flinched as the photographer’s camera flashed aggressively, capturing the humiliation of this poor woman on film for all time. As he half listened to Lestrade and Anderson talking quietly, he allowed his eyes to leave Sherlock for a moment and glance over at the woman: naked, lying on her back, for all the world to see. Despite his medical blindness, he couldn’t help wishing they would finish with the photography and cover her up. She was someone’s daughter, sister, wife maybe? Her hair was a medium length and straight, the layered cut in a vivid purple dye stood out brazenly against the crisp white of the hotel sheets, and her alabaster-complexioned shoulders. Somehow though, aesthetically, the blend of the bright purple coupled with the red blood was almost artistic against the white. John shuffled his feet nervously on the cheap carpet, the thought catching him off guard. _A bit not good to be appreciating the colour aesthetic of a crime scene._ His eyes momentarily flicked back to Sherlock to check once again how he was coping. He had refused to speak to anyone, even John. 

On arrival, John had rushed straight to Sherlock, checking him over, fussing about his blood-stained clothes, demanding answers, and grabbing his face firmly, unable to hide the disappointment upon finding Sherlock’s pupils blown wide, and his pulse hammering at an alarming rate. Sherlock had focussed just long enough to see the look in John’s eyes before pulling away and refusing to speak. Was this _his_ fault? Had their fight pushed Sherlock somehow into needing a hit? Or was this someone else’s doing? For now, it was all conjecture. Sherlock was in his own head at the moment, and John had failed the relationship test somehow. He would have to find a way to gently coax Sherlock back, but everything in his being needed to act, to yell, to have answers, to shake them out of Sherlock, who was being annoyingly silent, and distant.

Lestrade had decided to leave Sherlock there for the moment, pacing wildly, while they took in the crime scene. Some poor officer-in-training had been left standing beside him, ensuring Sherlock didn’t take the bolt – which he was prone to do without warning. The look of sheer concentration and fear on the young officer’s face would have made John laugh if it hadn’t been so very far from funny. The last time Sherlock looked this frantic and had shut down from John like this, it had ended very badly in a fall from grace that John wanted no repeat of. Now, they had finally managed to get back on track – better than on track – because now they were so much more than they had ever been back then, and yet, John couldn’t shake the beginnings of dread in the pit of his stomach.

The police lights flickered from their cars parked below, outside the hotel. It was too early in the morning for any sunlight to have risen yet, creating alternating patterns of blue light splashed across the plain walls of the room, oddly creating an ambiance that reminded John of a nightclub. Once again he had to stop himself from losing focus. This was anything but a nightclub. They were anywhere but at a party. This was anything but hilarious. And Sherlock was far from stable right now. John clenched his jaw and felt his toes curl in his shoes to grip against the soles, as if it might ground him. He tried with mammoth resolve to return his focus back to Lestrade.

“Do we know who she is, though?” John interrupted, assuming it hadn’t been discussed yet, realising he had not really been paying due attention.

“Still figuring that out. Sherlock won’t talk yet. Seems to be early twenties, wrist has a stamp on it from the club down the street. Donovan is chasing them for footage,” Lestrade offered.

“Okay, so what else?” John pressed on.

“Stabbed,” Anderson offered bluntly. John found himself craving Sherlock’s retorts reserved only for Anderson for always stating the obvious. John was too polite and worried to point it out, though.

“Knife?” he asked him instead, not really needing full sentences from Anderson – they had long moved past needing to be polite with each other after so many cases.

“Inconclusive,” Lestrade added, his eyes raking over John, waiting for the next question. While Sherlock was the genius, and always saw what others didn’t, there was something about the way John processed a scene that Greg seemed to respect. John had a quieter, more focussed and considered approach.

“May I?” John asked, gesturing to the body.

“Sanders?” Lestrade asked to the room.

The photographer looked up from her camera. “Nearly done, boss.”

John took the moment to check over at Sherlock again, while he waited for the go ahead.

“You going to talk to him?” he asked Lestrade without making eye contact, keeping his focus firmly on his confused genius.

“If he’ll let me. He’s pretty wired. Hasn’t said much yet. I thought he might be better with you in the room.”

“Not sure _that’s_ true. He’s definitely been thrown by _something_ , though.” John looked back at the lady. “You don’t think he—?”

“What? Sherlock? Do this? Not likely, is it? I didn’t even think he was… well, you know,” Greg offered.

John glanced over at him finally. “What?”

“ _You know_ ,” Greg nodded suggestively, but also had a guarded look of embarrassment.

“No.” John was missing something. “Know what?” 

“Interested in _women_? I didn’t think this was what he… went in for. Did he tell you he was going out with anyone tonight? It’s odd isn’t it?”

“No. He said he was going out to look into a case. Not a word about any of… this.” John seemed to be mulling it over and also avoiding eye contact with Greg.

“I mean aren’t you two still—?” Lestrade began.

“All done,” Sanders announced, interrupting them as she stepped away from the body to look about the room and get shots of the rest of the scene.

“All yours,” Lestrade offered to John, gesturing to the bed and moving away awkwardly. “Anderson, you’re with me,” he continued, stepping away into the doorway to talk quietly to Anderson and deliver instructions. 

John grabbed a couple of gloves from the dispenser nearby and walked cautiously over to the bed, observing details carefully as he went. Suddenly Sherlock seemed to settle, his pacing slowed, until he finally stopped to watch John in action. John noticed the change in tension in the room and looked over at him, but Sherlock’s eyes were not fully focussed, he didn’t acknowledge John’s presence at all with any sort of knowing look, like he usually would. But John’s movement towards the body had clearly caught his interest – unsettled, or worried him, perhaps? John glanced over at Lestrade, who had also noticed the change in Sherlock’s behaviour from the doorway, and they shared a look – raised eyebrows of interest and confusion. 

Sherlock was nervous or tense about John looking at the body for some reason, but also seemed ashamed to look him in the eyes. Could he have been involved with this woman? Sherlock had shown zero interest in women _ever_ – to the point of rudeness in Molly’s case. Aside from The Woman, of course, but she was long gone. Sherlock had been nothing but attentive to John since things had moved happily in that direction. They had been very careful and very chaste most of the time though, keeping a careful eye on Sherlock’s physical recovery as a priority. John had been a little bit afraid that Sherlock might be breakable, if he was honest – much to Sherlock’s annoyance. But there had been no indication, aside from the occasional tantrum, that Sherlock was unhappy with them as a couple… that he would seek the attention of… was this a prostitute? A date? Did they…? John shook his head. He needed to stop thinking like that. 

_Be impartial._ _Don’t make assumptions yet._

For now this was just a random body. How Sherlock happened to also be here could be completely unrelated. _Couldn’t it?_ As if he’d read John’s mind, Lestrade shrugged at John. How would they ever really know what was going on in Sherlock’s mind?

_But could he have done this?_ John asked himself nervously. Sally had warned him from the very beginning that Sherlock was capable. Was he blinded by his friendship, his adoration of Sherlock’s genius? His love? John swallowed hard as he bent over the body, leaning carefully on the edge of the bed to get closer. Lestrade moved closer too, to listen in, notepad in hand. He wasn’t an idiot. He’d solved many crimes perfectly well on his own, but John knew he enjoyed watching them work a scene and often let them lead. John had to admit the thrill was mutual. As much as he had insisted Sherlock wait until he was fully healed to be allowed out, he had missed this just as much. He had really not expected it to be quite under these circumstances when they finally ventured out together though. Sherlock was not meant to become part of the actual case. He rolled his eyes to himself in annoyance before focussing back on his task at hand. The body.

“Definitely multiple stab wounds,” he announced to the room, leaning closer still to part one of the wounds. “Sharp object, possibly not a knife though. The wounds aren’t clean enough. No signs of struggle. No signs of any marks on the neck – strangulation or anything,” he continued as he put a finger up to move some hair away from her neck. “Although, that may take a few more hours to really show up,” he said, craning his neck slightly to take in more detail. 

“Get a tox screen, she’s very clearly been drugged to make her compliant,” the deep voice drifted quietly but arrogantly from across the room, stopping everyone in surprise. No one more than John and Lestrade, though, who shared another glance at each other at Sherlock’s sudden outburst. Sherlock was noticeably shaken again by the attention, looking uncertainly to John for his usual correction of his behaviour. But John couldn’t speak.

“Sherlock, remember you really _do_ have the right to remain silent,” Greg reminded him with an awkward clearing of his throat, indicating to everyone to return to work and disregard the moment.

John kept his eyes on Sherlock, trying to show concern but aware that the intensity of the emotions he was feeling were probably coming across more like anger, or annoyance, when Sherlock dropped his eyes back to his feet, mumbling something quietly to himself again. For a brief moment, John felt relieved that Sherlock was able to speak at all, that he was not completely broken. But his sudden outburst did nothing to reassure John of his innocence. He gave his head a shake and continued on reporting to Lestrade: “He’s right, no one is going to let a person stab them this many times without being _on_ something. Unless it was part of some kind of kinky sex play.”

Sherlock had returned to staring at the girl, brow furrowed, still chewing on his thumbnail, processing John’s assessment. Obviously he was listening, even if he wasn’t giving John any response. Something in the pit of John’s stomach lurched at the sight of Sherlock standing in a crime scene and not looking confident. The last time he had seemed that way was… well, Moriarty. The days leading up to the fateful jump had been terrifying. Sherlock had been lost, confused, and had shut John out of most of it. He had promised himself he would let that all go now that Sherlock was back. He had promised not to hold a grudge. But he felt so isolated from Sherlock in this moment, an observer. An observer with no sway, no inside pull. He didn’t want to be just an observer. He needed to be more. He needed to be the person Sherlock confided in again, trusted again. He took his gloves off and, without looking to Lestrade, walked straight over to Sherlock, who was looking paler than usual and was rocking slightly on his feet. He was coming down off _something_ , that much was clear, and he was not really taking in his surroundings – perhaps he was in his mind palace, perhaps he was tripping, perhaps he had snapped finally. John was upset to know Sherlock had left their flat and taken something, when he was already in a weakened state. At the very least that was a betrayal in John’s eyes, regardless of what else had happened here.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, leaning closer than he needed to, but wanting to keep things between the two of them. Sherlock mirrored the movement, leaning in to listen. “What happened here?”

Sherlock didn’t speak, he just moved back enough to look at John properly. This time his eyes really looked over John’s face, more alert, more aware and taking in every inch of John’s face and demeanour, cataloguing information, deciding if John was trustworthy… _preparing his answer_ , John couldn’t help thinking. The gut response settled uneasily inside him. _It’s Sherlock. You know him._

“John, I… I honestly don’t know,” Sherlock finally settled on.

“How can you _not_ know? You’re covered in her blood and in her bloody hotel room,” John leaned in to whisper at him angrily. “She’s _naked_ Sherlock.”

This started Sherlock jittering again. His legs were jiggling, sending waves up his body and making his little curls tap against his pale skin, drawing John’s eyes there unconsciously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration. “Yes John, I know all that. Obviously. But I don’t… I don’t _know_ how I got here,” he whispered loudly.

“Sherlock,” John said, slightly scolding, definitely terrified.

“I’m telling the truth, John.” They shared a moment just staring at each other – a standoff usually reserved for seeing who might crack a smile first, who might be joking and finally give up the game, but Sherlock stayed firm, unflinching. John was confused and saddened to realise that there was no game here. Sherlock was deep in this with no information to share. 

A commotion of some sort across the room changed the stillness; some gasps and sudden flickerings of the camera flash erupted, as Greg and Anderson moved across the room at lightning speed and John turned to see what was causing the commotion. 

His stomach rolled as he saw one of the team holding a strange tool up in his right hand. He couldn’t work out what it was exactly, but it was knife-like in size and shape, although clearly not a knife. It was covered in blood and the photographer was having a field day capturing every possible angle. Everyone was very excited by the development. John began to feel light headed as Lestrade turned, a sick look on his face, and walked slowly towards them. He reached behind his back and pulled out his handcuffs – a formality they had foregone on arrival. John was momentarily confused, but as Greg moved away from the huddle of people, he clearly spotted Sherlock’s Belstaff in the left hand of the assistant. The knife-type object, covered in blood, had been pulled from his coat pocket.

Time seemed to slow down for John as Lestrade walked over to a confused Sherlock, placing the cuff on his left hand as he started reciting the required words. John was having an out of body experience, the words echoing distantly in his head as he stared at the coat. The coat. Definitely Sherlock’s. Blood on a knife. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. His eyes went to the body on the bed again. The woman on the bed. Naked. How could this be Sherlock? Something wasn’t sitting right about any of it. Finally he turned back to Sherlock who was desperately looking at John now, finally more alert, more aware of what was happening, but not saying a word, quite obviously hoping John would have something to say about the situation. John just looked at Sherlock with sorrow-filled eyes.

“John,” he finally whispered, his eyes pleading.

“Don’t worry Sherlock, we’ll figure this out,” John said as gently as he could, trying not to notice his own voice shaking.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg had left with Sherlock in one of the police cars and John was thankful no media had taken interest in the commotion outside the hotel in this quieter, less exciting part of town. That was the last thing they needed – Sherlock being walked out in handcuffs caught on camera. It was newsworthy at the best of times and there were many people who enjoyed seeing the likes of Sherlock put in his place – including many at the Yard. John knew they would normally enjoy tipping off the media, but something about this case had quietened even Anderson and Donovan. Something about the scene and the state Sherlock had been in had spooked them all, and John had been relieved, if not a little scared, to realise that everyone had taken the scene very seriously this time. Not a hint of an uttered joke or dig at Sherlock’s expense. They gave Sherlock the wide berth he so clearly needed and deferred to John and Greg’s judgement on everything as they quietly investigated the evidence. It had been so completely out of the ordinary that John had struggled to pin down why he had felt unsettled. Aside from the pathetic plea to John, Sherlock had barely spoken a word and had been led out of the building quietly and gently by Greg. John had briefly argued with him about the necessity of the cuffs, but Sherlock hadn’t even fought them. He hadn’t spoken another word – no smart remarks, no sass. Just compliance – eerie, terrifying compliance.

John had taken longer than he wanted finding a cab to follow them back to the station. He certainly didn’t like the thought of Sherlock being alone for long in the state he was in – his physical state for starters (although he realised that was mostly his own overprotectiveness causing worry there) and the fact that Sherlock was also coming down off some substance or other made John uneasy. This, accompanied by the fact that emotionally he appeared to be dissolving as well, all coalesced, causing John’s heart rate to tick rapidly and his nerves to be in a state of complete unrest. He called Mycroft on the journey over – a brief phone call that was business-like and humiliating. He suspected Sherlock would be mad about it, but at this point he had no idea what else to do. He and Mycroft had come to a better understanding in the months after Sherlock’s safe return and yet, he could hear the blame dripping from Mycroft’s voice. Sherlock had returned to case work on John’s watch and was now under arrest and high. The disapproving sneer was evident even over the phone, with very few words needed to convey it. John could feel the back of his neck bristling, heating, from the scolding. But Mycroft had needed to be told. At the very least, Sherlock would need the family lawyer and John had no idea who to call. They hadn’t arrived at that point in their relationship yet. He made a mental note that he would need to address that in the near future, if they were going to continue working on cases and getting into spots of trouble as they were wont to do. 

On arrival at the police station, the usual suspects were waiting for processing: a homeless man grasping a green handbag that was clearly not his own, rocking and talking to himself; a large lady in very skimpy clothing looking frustrated and bored; and a loud single mother, yelling at the officer behind the counter, demanding to know the location of her son who had been brought in on charges. For a brief moment, John wanted to run in the other direction. The very idea that he had to walk in here and claim his partner – like this lady was trying to do with her child – demanding answers, and suddenly needing to be the intelligent one, was daunting. John had never needed to take the lead on their cases – except that one time in Baskerville when his military ranking suddenly became useful. How was he even supposed to get past the front counter? Sherlock had a way of demanding entry, barging in with a sense of importance, expecting everyone to know who he was. He never realised that the likes of Greg or his brother generally stepped in ahead to clear the way – or he _did_ realise and pretended not to know. Either way, the arrogance always astounded John, although he admitted it was a bit sexy too. But if Sherlock couldn’t snap out of this state he was currently in, how was John supposed to solve this case and prove Sherlock’s innocence? _Without_ him? Assuming, of course, that he even _was_ innocent. He knew that Sherlock would at least want John taking the lead now before Mycroft stormed in, for the sake of his dignity if nothing else. Even as a newly established couple, John knew it was his job, he understood that much. And Sherlock’s disdain for Mycroft was always clear. The current situation would be fodder for weeks and John needed to head it off at the pass as quickly as possible.

“Detective Lestrade please,” he said with as much confidence and authority as he could muster, interrupting the woman’s ranting. The bored officer looked him up and down, silently judging his clothing, probably already well aware of who he was and who he was connected to. The media had revelled in the news of Sherlock’s return and the daring rescue and home care overseen by his dashing military sidekick. Their faces had been everywhere. The officer didn’t say a word though, seemingly relieved to be given a reprieve from the ranting mother, who made loud noises of disbelief at being interrupted.

“Through there,” the officer said, nodding behind himself, allowing John to run around the counter and down the corridor. He needed to find Sherlock, find where they were keeping him. He needed to be there for him. His heart was pounding as he picked up the pace, not sure where he was heading but fairly confident that there would either be chaos or a concentration of staff wherever he was being held. As he rounded a corner he ran into Greg, at full force. The two of them groaned at the surprise collision, stumbling apart.

“Steady on mate,” Greg said, sucking in a fresh breath, grabbing his chest from the fright.

“Where is he, Greg?” John demanded, without apology, realising his ability to maintain his composure was rapidly running out.

“Easy, easy. Take a breath first,” Greg replied with a nervous laugh, the look on his face expressing clear concern at John’s state of chaos. 

“Greg…” John pleaded, his nerves unable to wait any longer.

“Yes all right.” Greg acknowledged John’s distress and he put a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder to steady him. “They’ve processed him, and Donovan’s just taken him in for questioning.”

“That’s not a good…” John shuffled on the spot, trying to form productive sentences. “Is that a good idea?” he continued between huffs of breath as his heart rate steadied. “She doesn’t… he won’t…”

“John, take it easy. It’s just the initial statement. Take some deep breaths,” Greg said as John tried to pull himself back under control again. “He’s okay. She won’t do anything formal until he has a lawyer present. I assume you phoned his brother?” Greg checked.

“Yes, he’s… on the way,” John managed to get out.

“Right. Well there you go. Come on, I can take you into the viewing room, if you’d like,” Greg offered, with a hand gesture to the open corridor ahead of them.

“Yes please,” John nodded eagerly with a sigh of relief.

“I needed to look at the files and make some calls first anyway, so I’ve been hiding in there and letting Donovan take the lead on this bit. I’m keeping a close eye though, mate. Don’t worry,” Greg tried to reassure him. “Just heading back from a loo break, but they only just went in.”

John crossed his arms, not moving, his brow heavily furrowed as he looked at the ground, trying not to let the emotions get the better of him. He kicked at a piece of lint on the floor, in a nervous gesture, unsure what to say.

“Hey. He’ll be okay John,” Greg reassured him, a hand grabbing his upper arm this time, his head dipping low, probably hoping to gauge John’s emotions better, to catch his eye. When John looked up at him and made eye contact, he was embarrassed that his eyes were stinging with the beginnings of tears in them. The stress of the last couple of hours was finally catching up with him.

“Greg, it’s just… he’s still so… after everything,” John stopped before genuine tears threatened to come, his voice failing him.

“Oh John.” Lestrade grabbed the other arm now too, to steady John in support. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Whatever this is, let’s just take this hour by hour. Okay?”

John nodded furiously in reply, swallowing hard, hoping to push the fear and overwhelming emotions down his throat and out of the way. Sherlock didn’t need him to fall apart now. 

Following Greg in large strides to keep up, John entered the viewing room to the sight of a very demure Sherlock sitting at a table in the stark, minimalistic interview room. Donovan sat opposite him, a notepad open on the table, another folder beside her with case files already in place, and a young officer John had never seen before sitting next to her. Sherlock’s posture gave off an air of shrivelled weakness and defeat that John had never seen him portray – except during the extraction when he had been beaten into submission and fear. He turned his head to look at Greg in disbelief.

“He’s in no state to…”

“You can’t keep me here, not without my lawyer,” Sherlock’s voice mumbled through the distortion of the speaker on the wall, interrupting John and stopping him from speaking as he observed the scene in front of him.

“Your lawyer is on the way, I’m sure,” Donovan replied, crossing her arms in slight annoyance, but without giving off her usual air of aggression reserved for him. John’s protective hackles were already up even so. She leaned back in her chair, looking Sherlock up and down.

“Your brother seems to know before we do when you’re in trouble. I expect they’re both on the way. This isn’t a formal interview, we are just asking some questions. There aren’t any charges being laid yet,” she informed him gently.

“I think the handcuffs suggest otherwise, wouldn’t you agree?” he said, lifting his eyes up to meet hers.

She replied with a forced smile of sympathy but said nothing. “Who’s the girl, Sherlock?” she finally asked.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders silently, aggressively, in response.

“For the tape, Sherlock,” Donovan said in open annoyance – she knew that he knew procedure.

“I don’t know her,” he said, slightly irritated but softly, through gritted teeth.

“You were in her room,” Donovan pointed out.

“I don’t know her,” he said more firmly, and John thought he seemed very much to be trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

“She was naked, Sherlock,” Donovan added, dryly, not accepting what he had said.

“I DON’T KNOW HER!” he suddenly shouted, slamming a hand on the table, and John flinched at the sudden volume of his conviction.

“Fine,” she replied, looking towards the mirror, clearly hoping Greg had seen.

“Where’s John?” Sherlock asked nervously, following Donovan’s gaze, realising that of course there would be people behind the mirror keeping watch. His eyes were still wild from the drugs and not able to focus, but they darted back and forth across the glass as if the movement would allow him to see any better through a two-way mirror.

“I expect he will be here shortly too,” she replied with displeasure, flipping through her notepad briefly before looking back to him. “Sherlock,” she tried more gently, more sweetly. “You said you don’t know how you got there?”

“That’s right,” he said, fidgeting with the edge of the table.

“What _do_ you remember then?” she tried.

“She shouldn’t be asking him questions. You said she wouldn’t…”

“John, relax. They’re just chatting,” Greg said – way too casually for John’s liking – and he sat down at the table to look through his case notes.

“I’m not an idiot, Greg. I know how this goes. Have you lot even bothered to get bloods yet? To run a tox screen on him?”

“John,” he said, leaning back in the chair with a sigh.

“What?” John asked, defensively.

“Leave it to us.”

“Where’s John?” Sherlock asked again from the room, absently, letting his eyes flick back to the mirror. John’s focus was pulled back to the interview and he felt naked under Sherlock’s scrutiny, as if Sherlock could see him through there, though he knew that wasn’t the case. Sherlock would probably have already deduced that John would have arrived there as quickly as possible and that Greg was conspicuously absent right now. “ _And_ my lawyer. Where are they all?”

“I’ll go and find them shortly. Just tell us what you remember, Sherlock.” She tried to get his attention, but his eyes continued to dart around the room and back to the mirror.

“I’m not answering anything without my lawyer,” he finally said, with a coolness that conveyed his family’s wealth. It was something he rarely utilised unless they were on a case and it was expedient. But seeing him behave like an upper-class brat, awaiting the highly paid lawyer-on-retainer that would negotiate him out of a charge, made John’s stomach turn. Was he guilty and needing the lawyer? Was he expecting this to go away without consequence? Was he playing a role for the case and would let John know what was happening later? And more importantly: what the hell was he doing with that woman?

“Sherlock, that’s not advisable. It’s not a good idea to start behaving like you’re guilty,” Donovan commented.

“Does this normally work? With criminals?” he asked rudely.

Sally said nothing, but John could tell she was grinding her teeth beneath her closed jaw.

“Look, I don’t know anything. I don’t remember… anything,” he added finally. His voice was weak, a little scared by the prospect.

John couldn’t take it anymore. “Do we _need_ to do this Greg? Surely we don’t need to do this? Surely you know he hasn’t done this?” John started pacing frantically.

“Do we though, John? It’s not always that cut and dry with Sherlock. He does things… differently. You know that. Sometimes he is right on that edge,” Greg said. The constant craziness of Sherlock’s behaviour had long been a source of teasing, but now when it counted, John had assumed they would all stand by Sherlock. _This_ time. Particularly after the outcome of the last time they had accused him. He stopped pacing and shook his head before that thought had a chance to settle in his mind. 

“Sure, but come on Greg, seriously,” he pleaded again.

“He’s half off his face right now, John. He needs to understand that he can’t just do whatever he wants and act out and then expect everyone to trust in him blindly, the way you do,” Greg accused, gently. 

John turned away to look at Sherlock again through the glass, not wanting to acknowledge the reality of the dig.

“ _Is_ he innocent?” Greg continued. “I honestly don’t know that. I don’t think you do either.”

John spun around, taking in Greg again, looking horrified. “Of _course_ we know that, Greg. It’s _Sherlock_.”

“Yes, that’s exactly my point,” Greg retorted, eyebrows raised. 

“I’m shocked that we’re back to this again already. So soon after he’s back,” John accused with a heaviness that made Greg swallow loudly in response. John had a reputation for being violent, particularly when Sherlock’s honour was in question. And John was rapidly feeling his patience tested. He hadn’t tried to hide it and it was clear that Greg knew.

“John, you didn’t know him before,” Greg said, almost sadly.

John crossed his arms and leaned back on the glass, daring Greg to justify his position and Greg sighed with the realisation that he was going to have to explain.

“When he was young, when I first met him, he was brilliant. Like, I don’t know, like an exploding star. Shining too brightly for his own good.”

“Well that’s ridiculously poetic,” John said with an eye-roll. _Sounds like him though_ , he thought to himself. It reminded him of his own first impressions of Sherlock, that very first week they met.

“He annoyed everyone that would listen about case after case. ‘We had it wrong’. ‘We missed something’. All that sort of thing. No one wanted to deal with him. I was just a young sergeant at the time and my Chief Inspector threw Sherlock my way, to deal with him. I was hoping to become detective and I think it was a test. Well, Sherlock came through. Unbelievably brilliant. Well…” he sighed, glancing at John, “you know what I mean.” 

“Mmmm,” John agreed. He really _did_ know.

“He was mad, but a genius. And for a while he was doing very well. _I_ was doing very well. I made detective and it was great. Sherlock helped solve a couple of really critical cases. But the novelty wore off for him. He started to be unreliable, not showing up, not wanting to attend cases he thought wasted his time… sound familiar?”

John laughed to himself. It certainly did. He kicked at the floor nervously, impatiently.

“Until one case, when he was less brilliant, less focussed, more sporadic than usual.”

John stilled, beginning to focus more on Greg’s story, a little nervous about where it would go. Greg’s voice had become more serious.

“It was the drugs of course. We all knew it. He tried to hide it, but a team of investigators know the signs. We’d seen it all before. He started making mistakes. Accused people without evidence. We were chasing him around London with no order, no sense. Until…”

Greg stopped for a moment, rubbing his hand over his face. John could tell the memory of it was painful for him too. Sherlock meant a lot, to both of them. They both respected and loved him. The pain of seeing Sherlock ruin himself was one John could understand and appreciate all too well.

“Until?” John prompted.

“He arrived at a crime scene, higher than I’d ever seen him. Destroyed the whole scene. Evidence was unusable. Case ended up thrown out of court and the perp went free. Sherlock ended up being carted off to rehab by his brother, straight from the scene.”

John put his head in his hands, expecting that’s where it might end up. Greg stood suddenly, looking past John, so he turned his focus back to the interview room, to see Mycroft and another well-dressed man – presumably the lawyer – entering the room, led by a young officer who appeared to be shaking in his shoes. Mycroft had clearly put the fear of god into him. John turned back to Greg to gauge his reaction.

“Sergeant Donovan, I think we can cease that right now, if you please,” Mycroft drawled.

“Mr Holmes…” she said, standing up from her chair.

“Oh, I think it’s best you don’t try to bargain with me, madam. We both know you’re skating very close to the law on this one,” he said, looking to his lawyer who merely straightened his thin gold spectacles on his nose without a word. 

Donovan put her hands in her pockets and nodded at the officer beside her, who stood and moved to Sherlock, to stand him up.

“I haven’t spoken to Mycroft Holmes since that day. Since we had an ambulance come and take his brother off to rehab. He’s not a man of many words, but he uses them well,” Greg commented.

“Yes. That’s for sure,” John said, still remembering the bollicking he had been given earlier on the cab ride here.

Greg moved closer to stand beside John, and they watched the impressive power play unfold through the glass, as the police officer led Sherlock out of the room and back to his cell, to be counselled by his lawyer and his overbearing brother.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg rushed John to the holding cell, only to find an argument already in full flight. Sherlock had come out of his more subdued state of mind – the drugs undoubtedly wearing off a bit now. Greg had seen it, countless times. Usually it coincided with a certain older brother appearing to take control of the situation – a certain authoritative, devilishly attractive and impossibly aloof older brother. In all the years he’d worked with Sherlock, he and Mycroft had said very little to one another, but Greg had found himself being more attentive and supportive to Sherlock in the hope of running into his older brother. Sadly he’d never really had much luck, but it still didn’t stop him making the most of every possible opportunity. It wasn’t the only reason he spent time with Sherlock. He considered Sherlock to be his friend – a very complex, closed-off, hard-to-know sort of friend, but a friend nonetheless. Still, having an older brother like Mycroft who dropped by unannounced on occasion was certainly… a perk. Greg had kept his interest in men, in general, as a very tightly held secret. He was married after all, but in _his_ day, or at least when he was younger, it wasn’t socially acceptable in his part of town to be anything but a happily straight man hoping to get married. So he did. It wasn’t until he had aged a bit, seen the world a bit, experienced the sting of his cheating wife a bit, that he realised there might have been more opportunities if he had looked further afield, more interesting aspects in life than an unhappy marriage. 

He pushed gently against John’s back, both of them a little apprehensive to round the door frame into the holding cell space, as they listened to the interaction unfolding. John turned and gave Greg a doubting look. Greg nodded encouragingly, wanting John to take the first step into the lion’s den.

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Sherlock yelled in frustration, stopping John short for a brief moment. Greg ran into the back of him before he could stop himself. They both muttered apologies to each other before leaning forward awkwardly in sync, craning their necks to try and take in the scene. The family lawyer stood near the bars of the cell and Sherlock had turned his back in an act of defiance. The older men stood to attention, both in three-piece, pin-striped suits – the armour of the upper class. Mycroft leaned impatiently on his umbrella with one hand, the other hand covering his face in frustration, his leather briefcase leaning against the wall. The other man – obviously the lawyer – had his yellow notepad out and silver pen in hand, expecting to take productive notes. Greg smirked to himself. This man had clearly not had to deal with Sherlock directly before. It was apparent that even in that short space of time of their absence, the pair had been arguing with Sherlock for long enough to drive all three of them insane.

“You’re going to _need_ to talk about it, Mr Holmes. If you plan to get out of here,” the lawyer said hopefully, flashing his professional smile at Sherlock’s back. Greg noticed John shake his head to himself, well aware that this was not the way to win points with Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, there’s really no point in arguing,” Mycroft tried in his best older-brotherly voice of reason. It echoed in the small space, despite being muffled by his hand. Mycroft’s voice always resonated with theatrical magnificence. “We’re here to sort out what is needed to resolve this. And what you need to do, I imagine, is just let them know you _didn’t do this_.”

“But I don’t _know_ that. Do keep up, brother,” Sherlock replied, flicking his head to the side to glare at his brother, his voice full of acid and irritation. “I don’t know _what_ happened.”

“How can you not know?” John interrupted loudly, without thinking, stepping into the space. The pure frustration was clear in his tone. 

Sherlock’s head snapped around and levelled him with a look which silenced John faster than Greg had ever seen before. Greg followed behind him, blushing slightly with the guilt of being caught eavesdropping.

“Sherlock, I’m sure you at least know something that could be of use,” Mycroft tried to placate and intervene before John became the target. Greg used the opportunity to step around John and find a space for himself in the small distance between the cell bars and the walls. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge his presence.

“Don’t be obtuse, brother. I think you’re all aware I’m high right now,” Sherlock said, turning away again in disgust.

“Well yes, I’ve seen that often enough. But you’re telling me you have no memory?” he asked, disbelieving.

“So it seems,” Sherlock said with a frustrated sigh. Greg knew that Sherlock was not accustomed to finding important information missing from his brain. He could imagine this would be incredibly unsettling for Sherlock and probably wasn’t helping his mood either. Sherlock never enjoyed being out of control in any situation, particularly when it meant deferring to his sibling or admitting wrong-doing of any kind. 

“Have they taken bloods from you yet? There’s a legal requirement to…” the lawyer began.

“Oh do be quiet,” Sherlock snapped at him dismissively.

“He’s right,” John interjected, stepping forward. “We should get bloods from you now. Before it’s too late. Try to find out what’s in your system, a timeline…” he looked towards Greg for approval, agreement, anything. Greg was frozen to the spot, suddenly incapable of making a call. Sherlock turned around again and looked John up and down properly.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he snapped at John, who flinched at the question, obviously not knowing what to say. It was clear to Greg that John expected Sherlock would be pleased or at least relieved to see him here. Only minutes earlier, Sherlock had been asking for him and now, his mood had flipped in an entirely new direction.

“John, you shouldn’t have come,” Sherlock said with a tone that denied their relationship status. It was a cold temperament that spoke volumes in very few words – somewhat echoing his older brother’s skill, in fact.

“Sherlock?” John asked, confused, as he looked over to Mycroft and the overpriced, overdressed lawyer. 

“Go, John,” he said, turning away, dismissing him. Mycroft’s eyebrows raised in surprise that his brother would suddenly choose this path – a path they both knew well and had utilised over the years. Keeping everyone at a distance had always been the safer option for the Holmes brothers, even Greg knew that about them. But John had always been Sherlock’s exception to the rule. This was a new development, Sherlock shutting John out like this.

“Sherlock…” Greg interjected, suddenly feeling sorry for John, and trying to communicate to Sherlock that he was out of line, as gently as possible.

“Sherlock at least let us help you?” Mycroft begged from the other side of the room.

But Sherlock just paced back and forth on the spot, the unspent energy of the drugs still apparent in his twitches and his erratic behaviour. The only other noise was John’s left foot tapping impatiently on the cement, desperately hoping Sherlock would make some sense. Greg watched them both closely, waiting to see who would snap first.

“Seriously, you can’t just _stay_ in here!” John finally said, heatedly.

Sherlock stood for a moment, facing away from them before walking to the wall and slamming his fists on it with a loud cry.

“I’m not even going to be allowed to investigate this! I’m going to be at the mercy of the Yard. And we know how smart they are,” he said, levelling a look back at Greg to point the insult.

“Oi Sherlock! That’s uncalled for,” John snapped at him. “Come on, just let us help you. Mycroft can bail you out, right?” John looked back at Mycroft and Greg, for confirmation and Greg gave a nod.

“They can hold you for at least twenty-four hours,” Greg confirmed. “Longer if they find anything else in the meantime.”

“I’ll be on house arrest, John. You _know_ that,” he said with condescension, with despair.

“That’s fine by me!” John said stubbornly, crossing his arms and raising his chin in defiance. “Better to keep you safe where I can look after you,” he added. “You should never have been out on a case yet. I told you!”

Sherlock stopped moving, and looked him up and down again, assessing the situation, his eyes squinting in thought as he tried to calculate his next move. John didn’t budge, waiting with great patience for Sherlock to decide. A proper stand-off. Greg took a moment to assess them all – this family that were not very good at emotions, but somehow knew how to navigate around one another’s moods. Even when they were seemingly cruel, there was definitely love and understanding underlying it all. Greg envied it. Even at Sherlock’s most cold and calculating, Greg knew he loved his brother… and John.

“ _I’ll_ go out on the case. _I’ll_ go out with Greg,” John interrupted Greg’s thoughts, to try and concede and break the stalemate. “I’ll go out with him and take notes. You know I take good notes. And I’ll come back to you and you can—”

“They’re not going to let you come home and talk to me about the case, John. Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said, starting to pace again, still calculating. He chewed on his thumbnail as he stalked, his verdict on the situation yet to be laid bare.

“I’m sure Greg will… make an exception,” John said, giving Greg a side-eye to stay quiet, while he tried his best to negotiate. “You didn’t do this. You don’t _think_ you did this, do you?” John asked, desperately trying to reassure Sherlock, but instead only fuelling him further.

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Sherlock yelled, leaning his head against the wall of his cell in frustration. “That’s the whole point, John! I don’t know!”

“Well _I know_ ,” John announced firmly, steadfastly. “So let me help me. Let _us_ help you.”

“John—” Mycroft interrupted, seeing that Sherlock was struggling with the very ideas John was trying to convey. His incredibly, blindly loyal ideas. Greg could see Mycroft shifting nervously. Emotion made the Holmes boys uncomfortable. It could make or break them, and John was teetering on a very shaky line.

“Mycroft, it’ll be _fine_. He’ll be fine,” John said with such conviction Mycroft couldn’t look him in the eyes. “I know you’re worried about him, but I’ve got him, I’ve _got_ this.”

Greg watched so many emotions cross Mycroft’s face quietly, while Sherlock leaned into the wall, unmoving. Suddenly Sherlock chuckled, but John didn’t smile at it. The longer he laughed, it began to make Greg’s blood chill, his arm hairs bristle. It was a vile, unhappy sound. For a moment it made him really doubt Sherlock’s innocence, and his sanity.

“Oh John,” Sherlock said, patronising him with the endearment, and Greg noticed John’s ears redden in anger and embarrassment. John knew what followed was not going to be good. “Always so loyal. So blindly following,” Sherlock continued the humiliation, walking slowly towards the bars, closer to John, to push the point home.

John stood a little straighter, the insult clear, his hand pulsing its little battle tick by his side. 

“Stop it, brother,” Mycroft scolded firmly from across the space.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, turning to direct his anger at his brother now. “Do you not want me to embarrass you, in front of Mummy’s lawyer?”

“No,” he said firmly in response. “I want you to stop because you’re coming off a high and you’ll regret this later. And John’s done nothing to deserve it.”

“It’s fine Mycroft,” John said under his breath, clearing his throat and trying to shrug it off by moving about the space nervously in an unintentional mirroring of Sherlock’s pacing. 

“He’s lucky to have you,” Mycroft said sadly to John, catching them all by surprise. “If only he wasn’t such a stubborn arse, he could appreciate you in return.”

“He would do the same for me,” John said, flashing an appreciative glance at Mycroft for the show of support.

Sherlock huffed in disagreement at the unpalatable sentiment. “I survived without you before,” he said coldly to John, and even Mycroft’s head snapped up in shock as John stepped back, losing his balance as if he'd been slapped. He pursed his lips and processed what Sherlock had said before nodding to himself. It was another unconscious habit he had, which usually signalled that he was done accepting the emotional beating from Sherlock – it wasn’t the first time Greg had seen them reach this point. But given the situation they were currently in, it was particularly brutal to watch. Sherlock seemed to know he had pushed too far as well, as he didn’t make eye contact.

“Perfect. Just… perfect.” John finally said under his breath.

“You can go,” Sherlock said coldly, dismissing him, making the decision to keep banging the nails into his own coffin. “And take that ridiculous lawyer with you. I will represent myself,” he spat at them all.

“Sherlock—” Greg warned.

“He’s just lashing out,” John said to them all, but it was clear that he was trying to convince himself as well. After everything they’d been through, Greg knew that would have stung.

“Oh yes, don’t listen to the drug addict. He’s incapable of looking after himself!” Sherlock yelled, his arms flailing about as he danced around the cell dramatically. “Look at you all, just standing there, looking so helpless. I’m not dying!”

“This isn’t a joke, Sherlock,” Greg said angrily. He didn’t like seeing Sherlock like this.

“Oh, I’m not laughing,” Sherlock replied angrily. “But I’m not completely incapable either, _John_ ,” he spat in John’s direction. “You forget I survived being tortured. This little holding cell is _nothing_.”

“Oh believe me, Sherlock, I have _not_ forgotten,” John said, his voice faltering, but his eyes planted firmly on the man before him, serious and unwavering. 

“Right,” Sherlock said, a little less confidently, under John’s gaze. “Well then, you _know_. I don’t need you,” he finished stubbornly.

“You seem to forget who got you out,” John said, turning away, unable to look at Sherlock, his eyes starting to well up. Greg knew John would find it far more humiliating to be seen being emotional now, than any of this nonsense Sherlock was trying to stir up.

The room stilled as none of the men were willing to speak to break the tension. Mycroft began rocking his weight forward and back on his expensive black patent leather shoes, the ground holding great interest for him all of a sudden. Greg could see the reflections of John and the lawyer in the shoes. _In his shoes. Who has shoes that shiny?_ The longer the room stayed quiet, the more tension seemed to build. Nothing Greg had to say would help the situation. The lawyer had obviously given up as well, and Mycroft knew well enough to let Sherlock sulk a little bit longer before poking him again. They all stood, presumably trying as much as Greg was, to think of how to help, what to say, how to lighten the mood. But the more they all tried to think of something, the emptier their brains became. Until finally, Sherlock started a tirade, softly at first, barely audible, but rising with every sentiment he expressed.

“You know, no amount of talking will change what happened to me in there, John? In Serbia? And no amount of love will fix me. You think living together again and… being together… you think any of that makes any difference to that? Or to this _now_? You think any amount of what you’re _doing_ , or trying to do, will change the fact that I was _in_ that room tonight? With a naked woman I can’t remember? And they have some sort of bloodied knife with my prints on it. You think you can fix that? This is not going to end well, even if they let me out on bail now, John. Even then. Can’t you see that?!” Sherlock was angry, emotional, but his words were biting. Greg could see John’s jaw clenching and unclenching as he listened. “You were right, brother. Caring is not an advantage. It does nothing. It doesn’t fix _anything_. It doesn’t make this go away. I’m still going to be stuck here and I’m all alone. And that’s how it _should_ be. You shouldn’t be with me, John. I only bring trouble and pain and you should get as far away from me as possible. I don’t even know if I _am_ innocent, so there’s no possible way _you_ can know it. You’re just kidding yourself if you think that. I am no good. And I think you should go, and just leave this in our hands now. There’s nothing you can do _. I don’t need you_.”

John stood very still, processing everything Sherlock said. He glanced over at Mycroft, who was staring at the ground still, brow creased in thought, but not willing to look at John, or his younger brother. The lawyer shuffled briefly on the spot, not wanting to acknowledge any of it. He then turned his head to look at Greg, and it was obvious he was fuming now. He looked like he would punch the very first person to step into his space. Greg held his gaze but made a concerted effort not to give away any emotions at all. One wrong move and John might just snap. John’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times, preparing the right thing to reply to Sherlock’s tirade, until he finally seemed to settle on something, turning his head to look Sherlock straight in the eyes.

“Sod this. If you don’t need me, then you and Mycroft can sort it out on your own. I mean I’m only meant to be your _partner_. But if you don’t want me, then so be it. _So be it_. I don’t need this. You can just rot in here, then, Sherlock Holmes. Glad you’ve made that all so very clear,” John spat, his voice steady and filled with fury. In that moment, Greg could see John’s military training laid bare. “You know where to find me, Greg. If you need anything,” he added with a nod as he stormed out without glancing at Sherlock again. 

The lawyer cleared his throat, still not knowing what to add. “Mycroft, I’ll go and make a few calls and wait out the front,” the lawyer said, putting his notepad into his own briefcase and clipping his silver pen into his inside jacket pocket. “You’ll let me know when he’s ready to go back in for the next interview?” he asked Lestrade, ignoring Sherlock’s request to fire him.

“Sure,” Greg replied with a nod, stepping aside to let the lawyer head through the doorway.

“Sherlock—” Greg began.

“You too,” Sherlock snapped. “You can go too. There’s nothing to see here.” 

Greg shook his head, giving Mycroft a sideways glance, before starting to walk out.

“Well that went well,” he heard Mycroft say sardonically to his stubborn brother, as he passed through the doorway.

“Shut up,” Sherlock sulked back, the sound of him crashing down onto the hard bed in his cell echoing down the corridor.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hey Molly,” John said casually in passing as he breezed by the doorway of the morgue towards the office Sherlock was allowed to use.

“Oh, John! Actually have you got a minute?” she called out nervously, stopping him in his tracks. He walked backwards to reach the doorway again and Molly looked up from her work with a gentle smile.

“Yeah, sure. I was just coming to grab something from Sherlock’s desk,” he gestured in the direction of the office down the corridor. _As if Molly doesn’t know where that is_ , he reminded himself, sarcastically.

Molly paused, her head tilting in sympathy. “Oh, how’s he doing?” she asked gently.

“Not good,” John replied, walking into the room towards her, unsure what else to add but acutely aware they had both just killed any attempt at casual, friendly conversation. “He’s certainly struggling with the fact that he can’t help with the case. Meanwhile, I’m struggling with the fact that I’m not as good at this as _he_ is,” John scoffed, trying to make light of it. “Actually, I’m worried that his life is depending on my ability to do this,” he admitted.

“John, you’ll be fine,” Molly reassured him with a gentle smile and an adorable crease in her brow, putting her tools down to give John her full attention. “You spend so much time with Sherlock. I’m sure you’ve picked some of it up by now. Besides, some of it I’m convinced is just nonsense anyway and is probably just pure luck,” she said, in an awkward attempt to lift the mood, snorting lightly at her own humour.

John let out a loud sound, on an exhale, surprised that Molly would dare to tease Sherlock. “I’ve always _wanted_ to believe that,” he said with a broad smile, before breaking into laughter. Molly joined him for a moment, relieved he didn’t take offence. The very idea that Sherlock was actually just lucky with his crime solving really tickled John’s inner critic. But it wasn’t long before their laughter died down and they stood self-consciously together, unsure what else to say. 

Molly watched John for a moment, before finally breaking the silence. “Is he… that is… do you think he really…?” she stumbled uncomfortably through the question.

“I don’t know, Molly. He’s… different… since this happened. He’s confused,” John stopped. He didn’t know what else to say about it really. Sherlock had been anything but normal at the best of times, but John was aware that Sherlock was more distant all of a sudden and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. He didn’t like feeling so helpless. And now – in front of Molly – was not the time to have a breakdown about it. That much he was certain of. “Sorry, you wanted me to…?” he suddenly asked, changing topic and returning them to the purpose of his presence here.

“Oh yes, of course. Sorry,” Molly said with a characteristic eye roll at herself. “Honestly some days I think I’d forget my own head. Yes I um… a case came in. And it’s ummm… It doesn’t _seem_ like it’s connected to your case. Or so I thought. Gunshot. To the head,” she said with her medical hat back on, in a rush of nervous dialogue.

“Yes, but ours was a stabbing, Molly,” John said, confused.

“I know, I know. Go with me on this, though,” she said excitedly. “I found an unusual marking on one of the fingers and it took me a while to figure out what had caused it. Like a callus. From using something repeatedly. Like this, see?” she held out her own index finger close to his face and he took a moment to look down, even though he knew what she meant. “I have one on my right index finger from always using scalpels and implements with the bodies. From using them _repeatedly_. Like when you use scissors a lot and you get an indent?” she tried to explain.

“Yes okay, I understand what you mean,” he tried to hurry her along, becoming impatient. “And so? How does that link to Sherlock’s case then?” he pushed.

Molly looked nervous. “It’s a bit of a stretch…”

“Okay… so what was the cause of death in yours then?” he asked, trying to encourage her to keep going.

“Badly faked suicide?” she said with a grimace.

“Faked? There’s nothing fake about ours. Definitely stabbed. Not sure anyone would do that to _themselves_ ,” John said, starting to lose confidence in Molly’s theory already. Sherlock was always better at getting people to speed through to their conclusion – his brashness always excused somehow by the likes of Molly. John knew he would never get away with it the same way Sherlock did. 

“No, I know. I know,” Molly rushed, apologetically, realising she was taking too long. “Okay, so… well the indent on the finger – was on the trigger hand… _supposedly_.” 

“Supposedly?” John interjected.

“Yes, but I noticed the other hand had a better indent. A more _ingrained_ indent with discolouration – like a proper callus. I’d seen one like it before.”

“Where?” John asked, starting to cross his arms, but Molly leaned forward and grabbed at John’s right hand, which caught him by surprise. 

“Here,” she said. “On your hand.” 

John was startled by it. He wasn’t accustomed to anyone touching him much. Molly had never touched him before, or come into his personal space ever, that he could recollect. Occasionally, Sherlock would catch him off guard with a weird gesture or touch that breached their personal space boundaries but there had never been anything to it – at least he had assumed at the time. Of course, that had changed, but only recently. In general, John kept to his own personal bubble. He couldn’t work out where Molly was coming from right now, why she would do this, until he realised that she was grabbing at his hand to show him his own finger. 

“Gosh, you’re really observant. But that would be from my…” John suddenly realised as he looked at it before looking back up at Molly as it dawned. “…gun.” The realisation grabbed him hard. “It’s from my gun, Molly!” he added excitedly. 

“Exactly,” Molly said with a smile, letting his hand go, as she noticed she’d held on for too long. John didn’t care, he couldn’t take his eyes off his own finger. How had she spotted that? True enough, he had a callus on his right hand from where he had comfortably fired a gun during military service. Even after all this time. He still had a worn part on his right index finger from all the contact. Slightly discoloured, slightly rougher, slightly more indented. Probably not noticeable to the naked eye. Occasionally one of his dates would comment on the rough surface of that finger if they held hands – on the rare occasions he had managed to secure a date long enough to get to that point. But sure enough, he did have a callus. _How often do I even use my gun now?_ John thought to himself, slightly confused that the callus was still current. He’d not noticed it for a while and suddenly it was present, obvious. 

“Right. And even though you don’t use it that often, it still has more of a callus there, right?” she pressed on.

“You think they… I’m sorry, _what_ do you think exactly?” John tried to work it out. His brain felt more sluggish than usual, and something about the lab had begun to unsettle him.

“The victim had fresh marks on their right hand – when the gun was found. But they had much more pronounced markings and calluses on their _left_ hand. They were left handed, John. At least when they were firing guns!”

“So they didn’t shoot the gun,” John deduced, looking around for Sherlock’s reaction only to remember he wasn’t there. Where was he, again?

“Right,” Molly said with a satisfied nod, pretending not to notice John’s unconscious movement.

“So, faked suicide,” John added, piecing it together, thinking aloud.

“Right,” Molly agreed.

“I’m pretty sure our victim wasn’t a suicide by stabbing though, faked or not,” John joked.

“No, I know. I’m not saying that. But when I started looking closer, it made me look closer at their _hands_ , and hidden under the watch – which they hadn’t removed yet – there was another marking.”

“Oh?” John was suddenly more interested.

“I hadn’t noticed anything like it on your victim. Not initially. But this one was more pronounced. On _your_ victim, it looked like a freckle or a skin stain or… well I hadn’t really thought about it. But on _this_ victim it was clearer. Three marks in a line, like on a dice.”

“Oh. Okay and?”

“The other victim, _your_ victim, had only one dot, so I missed it the first time around. But… same size, same colour, same location,” Molly said, placing a photograph on the bench in front of John, showing the tattoos on their wrists.

“What are you thinking? That they’re numbered?” John asked.

“Could be. Could be a gang member with some sort of numbering system?” she agreed, with a nod.

“Right, okay. But this one was a gunshot and ours was a stabbing,” John reminded her.

“Maybe someone is removing gang members one by one in different ways to try and make them look disconnected?” she suggested.

“Molly. You are… brilliant. Brilliant!” he said, excitedly kissing her on the cheek and grabbing her into a hug, which made her blush furiously. “Has anyone ever told you that?” he asked, running out before she had a chance to add any more detail.

___________________

John rushed in, excited to tell Sherlock what Molly had shared. He didn’t care if he wasn’t allowed to tell Sherlock details. If Sherlock was guilty, he would already know all of it. And if he was innocent, well he probably knew most of it already anyway, if John was honest with himself. Sherlock was always so many steps ahead. Just once, he wanted to be able to surprise Sherlock, do something on a case that really made Sherlock realise he was valuable. Not just a replacement skull to talk to.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Sherlock asked bluntly, sulking in his cell, without turning to even look at John.

“You really need to stop asking it like that, you know?! I came to see _you_. I’ve just been…”

“On a… date?” Sherlock asked, turning around, suddenly scrutinising John.

“What?!” John’s smile dropped suddenly, and his stomach dived. Sherlock’s mood hadn’t improved while John had been away. He suddenly realised he couldn’t remember how he ended up here, at the cell again.

“I can tell, you know. I can tell. You’ve _shaved_. And you smell of someone’s perfume… Why does it smell familiar? What’s going on?” 

“N—”

“How are you managing to fit in a date right now? Aren’t you working on the case?” 

“Sher—”

“You know I’m relying on you?” he fired the questions all in quick succession before John could answer anything, John’s face colouring at the suggestion he would go on any date now that he and Sherlock were happily together – let alone a date with Molly Hooper.

“If you’ll let me get a word in,” John finally said, pointedly. “I have been _trying_ to solve the case. We’ve made some headway,” he announced proudly, his face lifting again.

“We?” Sherlock suddenly looked intrigued.

“Molly and I,” John said, without realising what that meant to Sherlock.

“Molly?” Sherlock said with genuine surprise.

“Yes,” John confirmed.

“You went on a date… with Molly?” he asked again.

“Yes,” John answered without thinking. “What? No!” he finally caught up. “Sherlock, of course I didn’t go on a _date_ with Molly Hooper. What’s wrong with you?”

Sherlock looked him up and down. “No.”

“Excuse me?” John asked, confused.

“No, it’s not a good idea,” he said, clearly not listening to John.

“She’s been very helpful on the case, Sherlock. That’s all it is,” John explained, a little embarrassed. 

“Are you going to have sex with her?” he asked, and John’s eyes blew wide.

“Sherlock! Stop that. I’m not dating Molly, we’re—” he stammered as he tried to explain fast enough to keep up with Sherlock’s mind dashing about to the strangest places. 

“You don’t think Molly wants sex? With you?” Sherlock asked, unable to let it go.

“Sherlock! Cut it out!” John said angrily and with enough firmness to try and shut him up.

“Sorry John,” Sherlock said stubbornly, crossing his arms into a defensive position. “I just happen to be in _prison_ right now. Not sure if you’ve noticed. I thought you’d be more concerned about _that_ ,” he added.

“What do you think I’ve been bloody doing non-stop? Since your arrest? And why hasn’t your brother got you out of here anyway?” John realised he had no sense of time, of what day it was. Why was John visiting him here still? Why hadn’t they released him yet?

“Mycroft seems to think it would be good for me to sit and think about what I’ve done,” Sherlock drawled, with an air of displeasure.

“Well maybe he’s right,” John said, annoyed at the conversation, starting to walk out, unable to keep fighting. He was so angry at Sherlock for going out on a case when he wasn’t supposed to, and for leaving him, to have to try and solve this case alone. He suddenly felt guilty, stopping himself at the door. The silence between them was thick in the air.

“Sherlock… I’m sorry. I don’t mean that. You _know_ I don’t. I’m just worried about you. And I’m so tired,” he said, his shoulders sagging at the very word. 

“I’m fine John.”

“You keep saying that, but I know it’s not true,” John said, stepping closer, grabbing on to the bars, looking in at him thoughtfully, apologetically. The cold metal of the bars shocked the warm palms of his hands and he gripped harder to try and squeeze the cold away. It felt strange holding on to the strong bars that were trapping Sherlock inside. His grip, above his head, made his arms and his back ache a little bit from the stretch but he didn’t want to let go. It was as close as he could get to Sherlock and somehow gripping the bars felt like he was holding Sherlock tighter, keeping him safe somehow. But something about the fact that he could feel everything so clearly unsettled his stomach suddenly. He couldn’t place why. Sherlock wasn’t saying anything much at all which was very unlike him.

“When I saw you,” John decided to continue talking, “in that hotel room. When we came in and saw the scene… you were so… you scared me,” he said quietly.

Sherlock didn’t speak but moved closer to the bars too, until he was leaning his head against them, close to John’s hands, the curls tickling John’s fingers. John let three of his fingers open just enough to stroke them for a moment.

“I don’t know what to say to you, Sherlock. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know if I’m good enough to solve this… without you.”

“When I woke up, covered in blood, in that room. I really thought…” Sherlock started to say.

“I don’t believe you’re capable of that,” John said quickly, asserting his position of support.

“We’re all capable, John. Make no mistake,” Sherlock replied just as quickly.

“Okay sure, but I still don’t think _you_ would do that. Not without good cause,” John countered.

“You really believe that?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah. Yes, I do.”

Sherlock didn’t reply to that, but he lifted his head to look at John. Something in his face still didn’t look like Sherlock, but John’s mind wasn’t thinking clearly at all. He was struggling to make sense of anything at the moment.

He reached his hand in properly, and placed it ever so gently along Sherlock’s jaw, in a sign of support. Sherlock tilted his head, leaning into the touch – his head seeking John’s attention – and closed his eyes. John’s heart squeezed at the innocence of the moment, that Sherlock still needed him, after everything he had said. It was the first time in days they had been able to be… _them_. Just for a moment.

When Sherlock opened his eyes again – his face now so close to John’s they could almost have kissed – something in John’s stomach clenched. He didn’t know why. But something seemed… _wrong_.

“Sherlock?” John asked, momentarily confused and unable to place what the sensation was. For a moment, he pondered how they were even allowed to stand here like this, unsupervised, touching one another. Surely that wasn’t allowed?

Sherlock reached through the bars and cupped John’s jaw with his left hand, mirroring John’s movement.

“Sherlock, you know I’m still so in love with you. There’s no dates, there’s no one else. Just you,” John said to reassure him, but feeling slightly unsure that Sherlock could say the same. The image of that naked woman in the room was burned onto his brain. The idea that Sherlock had no memory of what he had been doing to lead him to that.

Sherlock didn’t reply straight away but his face expressed a need to say something. He opened and closed his mouth as his brain ticked over and John stared, waiting for him to speak.

“John… I…” Sherlock’s face looked pained.

“What is it Sherlock?” John was worried.

“I’m sorry,” he said and something in the tone said there was more going on.

“What for?” John asked. His body felt suddenly disconnected for a moment, like he was watching from outside himself.

Even then, the moment the knife connected under his ribs, was the last thing he expected.

Sherlock stared at him straight on, unflinching, taking in the moment of shock on John’s face. John’s brow creased in confusion, but Sherlock’s face barely changed.

“Sherlock?” he managed to let out on a breath as his hand left Sherlock’s face to come down and grip the knife firmly planted in him. For a moment, their hands touched at the knife site, and Sherlock caressed John’s hand with his bloodied fingers for a moment, before letting them glide off to return their grip to the bars between them, John’s blood standing out on his beautiful white skin.

John’s confusion was still surging through him, his brain and his body still catching up with what had happened, his eyes still searching Sherlock’s for answers. The shock made him numb to any pain. The eyes that didn’t look right. _Why don’t his eyes look right?_

“Sher—what? What’s… going on?” John managed to sputter out in wheezy breaths.

“It’s all right John,” Sherlock said calmly.

“No, no, _no_ …” John said, as he shook his head wildly. The ground under him felt like it was tilting. His head started to feel dizzy and before he could say any more he collapsed to the floor in a heap, his legs losing their strength, his hands trying to grab at the knife to pull it out. Sherlock crouched down low in his cell too, to keep looking into John’s eyes. The reality of the situation suddenly dawned on John. 

Sherlock just stabbed me. _Sherlock_.

Sherlock was in his Belstaff, fanned out dramatically around his crouching figure inside the cell. 

_Where did he get his coat? How did he get a knife?_

“Sherlock…” is all John could get out again, between breaths.

“I love you John,” he whispered back, his lips so close as he pushed his head against the bars and John started to close his eyes as the shock took over.

“No…” he choked out, more to himself. “Sherlock…”


	6. Chapter 6

Greg sat hunched on the bar stool, his shoulders sheltering his beer, as if it needed any protecting from the mid-afternoon bar crowd. This particular bar was less familiar to him. He hadn’t been here since his early days on the force, at any rate. It was less well kept than the one he frequented closer to the Yard: the smell was musty; the carpets dingier and less well cared for; the bar less polished; and a handful of lonely alcoholic regulars were spread about drinking their own sorrows – some at the bar, some in booths around the outskirts, none of them speaking to one another. Not that Greg had the right to judge. It wasn’t even two o’clock and here he was, into his second pint. He hadn’t bothered to eat yet.

In all the years he had dragged Sherlock’s sorry arse out of drug dens, collected him from the shop fronts he’d fallen asleep in front of or removed him from crime scenes he’d become overbearing at, he’d never felt as sick as he did today. As much as everyone joked about Sherlock being dangerous or unpredictable, he really wasn’t. Greg had understood the patterns of his behaviour all the way through: struggling lonely genius, needing an outlet. Today was something different. And this time, Sherlock was not the raging, indignant, arrogant git he usually had been when Greg picked him up. This time, he was compliant. He let Greg lead him to the car. _Let him_. Greg had gently guided his head inside the door, to collapse onto the back seat, and his stomach had lurched. He was like a young child. Only, nothing like the young child Greg had _actually_ known way back when. Now, he was lost, innocent and confused. Sherlock had never really been any of those things, not even on his worst day. Until today.

_Did I push too hard?_ he thought to himself. He had hoped that giving Sherlock some cases would be good for him, that the challenge would motivate him to heal faster from his injuries and get out of Baker Street and about London. Sherlock loved London. John had relinquished a modicum of control and allowed him out to start investigating a minor case, or so Greg had been led to believe. It seemed that John had done no such thing and now Sherlock was in all kinds of trouble, and John was not coping well. Greg would deal with John’s wrath in the coming days he was sure, but at the moment John was still reeling. As were they all.

The first round of questioning with Sally had been bad enough. Sherlock’s eventual outburst had seen John’s exit. The second round had been particularly gruelling and by the third one, when Sherlock finally dissolved into hysterical sobs at not knowing what was going on, Greg had wished John had stayed, that he’d been there to talk Sherlock down. Sherlock had been returned to his cell for a break. Greg couldn’t face the paperwork, checking in on Sherlock, only to find him sleeping peacefully, the emotional strain finally taking him down, and Greg had walked straight out of the precinct to the bar across the road, desperate for something to stop the clanging nerves he couldn’t settle. He didn’t care that he was technically still on the job. This was too much for him today.

He _knew_ Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock was unpredictable. They had been here before. Not that long ago, Sherlock had appeared guilty and it had led them to the ugliest of situations and Greg wanted no chance of a repeat performance. When he found out that Sherlock was alive, he had promised himself not to let it happen again. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself doubting Sherlock today. How quickly they all forgot the lessons of the past. He hated himself for being sceptical, but by god, he was. Sherlock had the murder weapon in his pocket. _In his pocket._ Greg closed his eyes, his face collapsing in on itself, unable to remove that image. He sculled down the rest of his pint before gesturing for another. The barman gave him a look of warning, and Greg ignored that and slammed down his money with a nod. It was not up for discussion. A third pint might finally be the magic number to wipe the vision of Sherlock’s pathetic facial expression as they had pulled the weapon out of his coat. _Something_ had to stamp that image out.

As he started on the next pint, he couldn’t stop his mind already going back over his arrival at the crime scene. John had left his side as soon as they walked into the room and rushed straight to Sherlock’s side, ignoring the rest of the crime scene completely. Sherlock had been standing at the window staring out, his figure intimidating as always. He was not assessing the crime scene at all – a worrying fact all on its own. Greg had watched as John grabbed at him and tried to turn him around, Sherlock flinching initially but then weak and pliable when he realised it was John. Caught completely off guard by Sherlock’s passivity, and the blood all over his clothes, John had started frantically checking him over. Greg had torn his eyes away to begin securing the scene, doing his duty, calling for backup, but keeping a wary eye on the two of them.

“Sherlock? Sherlock? What happened?!” John had said loudly into his face, like a worried parent, trying to get some sort of reaction.

Sherlock had just looked at John as if he wanted to say something but was unable to find the words. John grabbed a pen torch out of his jacket pocket and checked Sherlock’s eyes, scolding him for being high, but also trying to gauge some sense of what had happened. His hands raked wildly over Sherlock’s clothes trying to check for injuries, and Greg had to call over and remind John not to tamper with evidence, until they knew more. Eventually he had to run over and stop John himself. He would have given anything to be unprofessional for a moment, to also check on Sherlock. God, to hide the body if they could, and get Sherlock out. But he had to stay strong for them both and keep the scene untainted. Sherlock didn’t need to be sent to prison on a technicality. Greg had no idea how to protect his friend and do his job in this situation, while making sure John didn’t stuff it up for all of them by being emotional – because he knew John would never forgive himself if he did. He had seen some pretty gruesome crime scenes in his years, but something about this had affected him more than any of those. Seeing Sherlock so completely trapped was unbearable.

He took another big gulp of his glass, hopeful to drown out some of the memory, when a movement caught his attention at the doorway. Unexpectedly, Mycroft Holmes stood, imposing, in the doorframe, the obscene scent of the bar seeming to catch his nose and cause him to sneer in disgust. He suspected Mycroft was determining whether he needed a drink badly enough to cross the threshold, or whether to back away slowly and forget about it. Greg smiled to himself; he had done exactly the same thing, although frequenting dives like this one was a more regular occurrence for him. He supposed Mycroft Holmes hadn’t been to an establishment like this, probably ever. The older Holmes didn’t spot Greg as he walked in, avoiding eye contact with everyone, assuming he would have no reason to know anyone. He quietly ordered a drink, as if the act in itself was shameful and took a moment to glance around, finally spotting Greg huddled at the end of the bar. He raised his eyebrows and gave Greg a brief once over, assessing him as only Mycroft could. It sent a shiver down Greg’s spine to be so closely scrutinised by him.

Mycroft then put his briefcase and umbrella down against the bar and awkwardly tried to sit on a stool. Greg couldn’t help smiling into his pint _. That man has probably never sat on a bar stool in his life,_ he thought to himself. He decided to leave him alone, though. It had been a tough morning for them all, but he couldn’t imagine watching a brother go through it. Space was probably what someone like Mycroft Holmes would need right now.

“Aren’t you still on call?” Mycroft interrupted his thoughts from down the bar.

“Me? Well, yes. Technically. I just needed a break. Rough morning,” Greg found himself saying, a blush creeping up on his cheeks with guilt. He was on call and it probably wasn’t a good look to be off his game to the family of the person he should be trying to clear.

“Well, I hope you trust the rest of that team of yours more than I do. Can’t say I hold much hope based on _last time_ ,” he called back, and it stung a bit. 

He didn’t know how to tackle someone like Mycroft. This man was always an enigma. So smart and much colder than his brother. Less likely to share in a joke or suffer idiots. Way out of his league, that much was certain. But a part of him always wanted to see if he could break through that exterior and find something special under there.

“I know it…” Greg began, feeling stupid yelling up the bar at him. Realising the sulking alcoholics were all watching, he grabbed his pint and walked closer before getting on the stool next to him. Mycroft followed him with mistrusting eyes, appearing to be almost insulted that Greg had dared. “I know it looks bad,” he went on. “But I just couldn’t watch him like that. He’s not himself, and I don’t even know where to start.”

“Yes, it is a bit unnerving,” Mycroft agreed, and Greg was able to relax a bit, huddling around his beer again.

“Usually this would be when I turn to Sherlock to help me get started,” Greg laughed bitterly. “But it seems he’s unavailable.”

“My brother is definitely not himself right now,” Mycroft agreed, sadly, taking a sip of his drink.

“Anyway, I have faith in Donovan and the rest of the team. They’re good, Mycroft. I just needed… in fact I was about to move to something stronger and make a day of this,” he said, gesturing to the barman to come back, and pointing to the scotch bottle nearby. The barman gave him another look which suggested strong judgement.

“No, not that one. At least get the top shelf,” Mycroft admonished, pointing to the bottle higher up. 

“We’ll have the bottle,” Mycroft stated, with a superior air, and Greg raised his eyebrows, impressed and a little terrified. “Shall we go and sit somewhere more comfortable?” he offered.

“Sure,” was all Greg could manage.

“We’ll take it over there,” he announced. The barman nodded respectfully, and Mycroft left a large note on the counter that well and truly covered the liquor and a nice tip, before grabbing his belongings and leading them over to a booth at the side of the room, away from prying eyes. The curved, red-cushioned seat engulfed them as they slid in and got settled, Mycroft placing his briefcase and umbrella beside himself on one side.

An hour later, and a fair bit of the bottle gone, the conversation became more comfortable, more personal, their inhibitions lowered enough to feel at ease. Greg felt a pang of disappointment that he had taken this long to get to know the older Holmes brother better.

“Why are you Holmes boys such a mess?” Greg finally got the courage to ask.

“Sherlock said you’re having trouble with your wife?” Mycroft countered, avoiding the question, and eye contact.

“Puh.” Greg let out an unexpected sound in shock at the bold question, spitting out some of his drink. “Yes, he’s right. I mean I don’t know why he’s talking to _you_ about that but… well we’re separated. We got married very young, everyone has their ups and downs,” he tried to downplay it.

“You hadn’t struck me as someone who’s—” Mycroft stopped himself suddenly, taking a sip of his liquor.

“What?” Greg asked, curious to see what he meant, turning his head to see a slight blush rising on Mycroft’s cheeks, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen the man blush about anything, ever.

“I don’t know… straight?” Mycroft said, finally looking into Greg’s eyes, trying to read him.

Greg huffed a laugh, assuming he was joking. He’d been married for years. How anyone would think he was anything but a boring, married man, was beyond him.

“ _Really_ ,” Mycroft insisted. “I guess I got the wrong impression.”

“That’s not like a Holmes brother,” Greg joked in response, to which Mycroft didn’t reply, choosing to take another drink instead. “I’m surprised Sherlock didn’t set you right. I’ve been with her my whole adult life. As long as he’s known me. He’s heard me complain about her often enough.”

“Never said a word,” Mycroft said casually. “Mind you, you also haven’t denied it,” he pointed out.

“Denied it? Oh. My sexuality you mean? I don’t know, it was a different time back then wasn’t it?” Greg said in a rush. “When _we_ were younger? You just didn’t think about it or talk about it. At least I didn’t. Just focussed on finding a nice girl and settling down to have kids, like I was supposed to,” he said, almost sadly. The realisation hadn’t even dawned on him until this moment. Had he looked at Mycroft with interest before and wondered why? Certainly. But he never entertained the idea fully, not really, not with _any_ man. Not seriously. And definitely not with the unapproachable older Holmes.

“You never had kids, though,” Mycroft said. He had deduced that much. It wasn’t a question, but Greg was used to the Holmes brothers and their odd way of inserting confident statements into the conversation like that.

“No,” he sighed. “She couldn’t, in the end.” And therein lay the first problem in their marriage. Greg had always wanted kids. He had been comfortable marrying so he could have them. Until they couldn’t.

“Did you ever wish you had?” Mycroft asked suddenly, as if he read it on Greg’s face and Greg was suddenly very self-conscious about it. It was a deeply personal thing to him, something he didn’t want to talk about.

“Did _you_?” he asked, trying to deflect the attention away from himself.

“What? Have kids?” Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded slowly, as he took a sip of the liquor, watching Mycroft closely. It was smooth, expensive-smooth. Not the usual “paint stripper” scotch he would be able to afford at a pub. So many times he had wanted the chance to sit somewhere like this and talk with a man, with _this_ man, to find out more about him. He was incredibly intimidating. His clothes alone were probably worth more than Greg’s entire monthly salary, probably without the shoes, even. He was the epitome of well-groomed and well-cared-for. He smelt amazing too, which drove Greg crazy, and he had a little vein that popped up on his forehead when he concentrated, that Greg had always loved. It was especially present when Sherlock was in trouble. He had spent many hours standing back watching the brothers interact, his eyes always watching the little vein. No matter how much trouble Sherlock was in or where Greg found him, his big brother always came to take care of him. It was lovely. Sherlock never appreciated it, or understood it, but Greg had become familiar with Mycroft’s looks. With Mycroft’s heart, even. He knew under that exterior was a caring big brother who wanted to protect Sherlock from every hurt, at any cost. 

“No, I never… I never really focussed on that. On kids. On any of that. I had Sherlock to take care of. And a government job kind of takes over your life,” Mycroft said sadly.

“Oh I hear that.” Greg understood perfectly well. His job may not have been as lofty as this man’s, but he still worked for the government and devoted way too many hours to it for his wife’s liking. He laughed in agreement, without meaning to.

“The struggle of trying to climb the career ladder—” Mycroft began, staring into his glass. 

“Earning enough money to pay the bills, take care of the wife, give her enough attention?” Greg continued the thoughts, in agreement. “Well... it doesn’t go the way you think it will. Apparently the P.E. teacher is more appealing.”

“Well I did always have a thing for the P.E. teacher myself,” Mycroft joked bitterly, giving Greg a sympathetic look, though.

“Yes well,” Greg couldn’t help chuckling along. “Why is that? Why are they always so hot?”

They both sniggered some more into their glasses, like old friends, and then Greg realised, they really were old friends. It had been how long? Probably ten years or so since he’d met Sherlock. How had they never managed to sit and have a drink like this until now? After everything they had been through trying to help Sherlock, as they rallied around him in the hope he wouldn’t completely burn himself out. It had been a relief when John had come into the picture and taken some of the burden off their hands, if he was honest with himself. John and Sherlock had become such an important friendship to each other and to Greg. He was jealous of what they had – that deep friendship that had become something more, something special.

“Did you always know?” he suddenly asked, before he could stop himself, the scotch giving him a nudge.

“Know what?” Mycroft asked, looking over at Greg.

“That you were—” Greg didn’t want to say it. Why had he asked? “That you wanted men, instead of women?” he finally clarified.

“Oh.” Mycroft’s eyes returned to his glass. “Yes I always did. But we just never… Sherlock and I… it’s like our brains were rewired at birth. We got the super intelligence but the… disinterest in sex,” he explained.

“Disinterest?” Greg tried not to sound disappointed, but he had to admit he was also curious.

“Well… we don’t let it cloud our judgement, let’s put it that way. Disinterest is probably the wrong word,” Mycroft explained further.

“You know in all the years I’ve known you… you’ve never… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a partner,” Greg commented, taking another sip, for courage.

“No I haven’t really had anyone,” Mycroft said, also taking a sip.

Greg couldn’t hide his surprise.

“Well I mean, there are clubs. There are places one goes,” Mycroft rushed to defend his honour, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m a single man of means. I know where to find it. But no, nothing meaningful. I just never really felt the need until—” the thought stopped mid-sentence and drew Greg’s attention to him even further.

“Until?” he asked, even more curious.

“Well… I had Sherlock. I’ve always had my brother. Sherlock and I were one and the same. We understood each other, and we were equally… lonely I suppose. But happily so. And now he has John and… I admit I envy him a bit.”

“ _Does_ he have John?” Greg asked, dubiously. After that little display in the holding cell, he was worried.

“Oh yes, they’ll sort that out,” Mycroft reassured him, the humour coming back into his voice. “That’s just an ordinary day in Baker Street for those boys. The fighting’s part of the fun for them, I’m sure. John always comes back, he’s incredibly loyal. Sherlock’s terrible at apologising, but he does it, and then they’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“Good. I like them. I think they’re good together,” Greg said proudly, and he couldn’t help a light scoff at the idea of the two of them sitting here like parents lamenting their children. 

“I’m happy for Sherlock, honestly. That he has John. But Myc,” he began, noticing Mycroft’s eyebrow lift at the familiarity of the nickname. “Today, when I picked him up… when I had to take him in the car… it reminded me of…” he couldn’t even finish his thought, suddenly feeling sick at the memory again.

“Yes I remember. The case where he fell apart. I was thinking the same thing when I walked in and saw him at the station,” Mycroft nodded slowly as he agreed.

“I thought we were past those days,” Greg said, sobering a little at the idea that Sherlock may be back on the drugs again.

“Me too,” Mycroft nodded into his scotch glass.

“He’s going to be okay right? This won’t set him back?”

“Well, that depends on whether he’s done this or not, doesn’t it?” Mycroft said, turning his glass in his hand, watching the light nearby tickle the glass with rainbows.

“What do you think?” Greg asked, genuinely curious to know.

“I think it’s Sherlock. Who can possibly know?” he replied, raising his eyebrows, in fear almost.

“Right? I said the same thing to John,” Greg lamented.

“Well _we’ve_ both known him longer,” Mycroft pointed out.

“Hmmm, true. But somehow I think John knows him better. I do worry, though. Sherlock is unpredictable. He’s carrying war wounds with him now so…”

“Greg, I’ve never really thanked you for… all that you did for Sherlock. All those times…”

“Oh look, he’s helped me more times than I’d care to admit. The score’s definitely even. You don’t need to…”

“I know. But I _want_ to – say thank you, that is.” Mycroft suddenly seemed in uncomfortable territory.

“It’s my pleasure. I mean, he helps me with my cases, but he’s also my friend. I count him as a friend,” Greg said gently, nodding.

“Good, that’s good,” Mycroft mirrored his nodding, relieved.

“And I’ve always wanted to do it… for you too. I’ve always been a bit… in awe of you.” Greg’s eyes blew wide as he realised the alcohol had definitely lowered his inhibitions in a way that was not good. Mycroft said nothing in return, just stared into his glass, quietly, the silence becoming awkward, making Greg squirm. It was clearly a polite rejection. “Right, well on that note, I need to use the facilities. Back in a moment,” he said brightly, before Mycroft had to say anything.

“Yes certainly,” Mycroft said quietly, not looking at Greg as he walked away.

Greg stumbled slightly as he moved to the bathrooms – a little terrified of what state they would be in, desperate enough not to care, and also in need of an escape route. After that embarrassing little statement, it would have to suffice. Once he had relieved himself, he walked over to the basins, washed his hands and splashed his face with water, spilling some on his shirt, not caring. He was overheated from the booze and the close contact with Mycroft. _Mycroft_. That aftershave, the three-piece suit, the posh accent. Opening up like he normally doesn’t bother to. It set Greg’s head into overdrive. Years of fantasies being lived out at an alarming rate inside his brain and he had no control over it. He gave his face another splash and went to grab some paper towel, only to realise the dispenser was empty. He wiped his hands on his trouser legs to dry them, in annoyance, and stopped to look at himself in the mirror for a moment. His hair had greyed a little more – every year a little more. He was _old_ now. He didn’t like it, but he had become middle aged suddenly and he was tired. He was tired of his daily routine which brought him no joy. Even the police work had been dull without Sherlock’s creativity lately. He missed those days. He desperately wanted something exciting, something new. 

“Well it won’t be from that man out there, you eedjit,” he said to his reflection, convincing himself to let it go. “He’s not interested in the likes of you.”

As he turned to exit the bathroom, Mycroft pushed the door open and stormed in, his briefcase and umbrella in hand. He didn’t speak a word, he just stood there, unwavering, his expression a little sheepish as his eyes met Greg’s. Something about the look on his face was enough for Greg to feel things he didn’t understand himself. But whatever it was, it drove him to walk straight over and grab Mycroft roughly by the arms, pushing him back, pinning him to the tiled wall. The alcohol fuelled a confidence he would never have had otherwise.

“Greg,” Mycroft said softly, as his case and umbrella fell out of his hands. It was questioning, but breathless, as if he had hoped to find Greg waiting and willing.

Greg didn’t hesitate, he lifted his hands from Mycroft’s arms up to his face and kissed him like his life depended on it. For a brief moment, Mycroft was board-stiff, not a muscle moving, not expecting it to happen like that, his brain still registering the assault. And then it happened: he softened, he _blended_ , he grabbed on and it was the best damn kiss Greg had ever had.


	7. Chapter 7

“No… Sherlock…”

As his body jolted upright in bed, it was of little comfort to John, that it had all been a dream. A bad dream that had woken him. A very realistic, terrifying dream. His head throbbed with the confusion as he desperately tried to look around and find his bearings.

_Sherlock Holmes… stabbed me? My Sherlock?_

Sweat was pouring off him, and he could feel the tears choking up his throat. His muscles hurt, and his eyes were wet with emotion. His heart was pounding at an alarming rate, and he couldn’t get his breathing to slow down. He didn’t know whether to cry from relief, or from fear. 

_It felt so real._ _What the hell was that about?_

John grabbed at his stomach suddenly, his brain having caught up a bit. He lifted his shirt roughly, to check for stab wounds, for blood, for a knife. Anything to verify it, but there was nothing. Just sweat and a heaving stomach as he sucked the air in and out of his lungs, grateful to still be breathing. Looking around, he realised he was at home and he was alive. 

He let out a sob of overwhelming relief and dropped his head into his hands, wiping the sweat and tears away, the sob turning into a mildly hysterical mix of laughter at himself and restrained crying. Fully clothed, shoes and all, he had apparently come home from the police station, and must have crashed on the bed in his own room – the bed he never slept in anymore. From the light peeking through the gap in the thick curtains – roughly closed and not meeting in the middle – it could only be mid-afternoon. He checked his watch, still confused about where he was and what had happened. After spending the very early hours at the crime scene and then the stressful time at the station, worrying about Sherlock, he didn’t even remember why he had ended up in his old room when he had come home. 

_Maybe habit? Probably just sulking after that little performance from Sherlock,_ he reprimanded himself. 

His mind was still trying to come to terms with what day it was, what time it was, what had been swirling around in his head to create a dream like that. Slowly he ran over the events of the last twenty-four hours, trying to decipher what was real and what had been part of the insane dream, his practical side trying desperately to make sense of the line between reality and fantasy, completely blurred at this point and giving him a headache from the disconnect.

Deciding to get up and move around to help put his nervous energy somewhere productive, John shuffled his legs off the bed and stood up, appreciating the stability he felt in having his feet firmly planted on the ground. He lifted his shirt, checking his ribs one more time, just to be sure, before looking up to the heavens in relief. 

“Oh thank god, thank god! Sherlock Holmes, you’re honestly going to be the death of me. I’m just glad it wasn’t like _that_ ,” he said to the empty room, with a little nervous laugh, shaking his head at himself for letting a dream cause so much distress. 

It had been a while since he had experienced the night terrors of Sherlock’s fall, or of war. Despite himself, his eyes started to tingle as they filled up with tears, beyond his control – an irritating reaction to the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He rubbed his hands across his face to clear them again, and letting out one more shaky, loud sigh, he walked over to his cupboard and found a fresh shirt, to replace the one that was soaked from sweat.

Walking down the stairs, still in a bit of a daze as he pulled the soft t-shirt over his head, John headed straight towards the kitchen to make tea in the hopes of settling his jangling nerves. It was probably too early to go straight for the hard liquor.

“Dr Watson,” the voice said from behind him.

“Gah!” John let out with a shout, grabbing at his ribs protectively in shock, as he spun around. “Oh!” he jumped on the spot, at the sight of Mycroft sitting on the sofa, his heart dropping almost out of his chest with the unexpected visit. Mycroft sat calmly, umbrella in hand, twirling the tip on the floor, looking smug. 

“You scared the _life_ out of me. Bloody hell, Mycroft!” John shouted at him, the words coming out angrier than he meant. His rapid heart rate, still trying to process the earlier fright, made him edgier than he meant to be. 

“Looks like _something_ already did…” Mycroft commented, glancing up and down at John’s posture, deducing the cold way only a Holmes brother could.

“Sorry?” John asked, confused by his comment, still slightly affronted at the intrusion. He straightened the fresh shirt nervously as he took a moment to process everything.

“… scare the life out of you. Something clearly already did that,” Mycroft commented casually, connecting the dots for John in a patronising lilt.

“Oh… just… bad sleep. Bad dreams. Nothing to worry about,” John tried to sound much more comfortable and casual than he felt.

“Yes, I heard,” Mycroft replied, eyes pointing towards the stairs to indicate he had been sitting long enough to hear the nightmare for himself. “Nice that you found time for a nap. Need I remind you, the fate of my brother is resting in your hands right now, Dr Watson?” he added, without making eye contact, the accusation a little insensitive even for Mycroft’s taste.

“Well I hardly think _that’s_ accurate,” John said, suddenly feeling guilty and useless, Mycroft’s attack hitting the intended mark.

“Well, you’re right about that. We both know you don’t possess the necessary skills to really _help_ him, John. But of course, he’s going to rely on you despite it. He’s stupid like that sometimes.” Mycroft was harsh in his assessment, but John realised he couldn’t really argue with it either.

“Ugh, you really are… quite the pair – you and Sherlock,” John said, frustrated. “Stubborn to a fault and that bloody childish feud of yours!” John shouted in frustration, dismissing Mycroft by heading to the kitchen to prepare his tea, without offering one to his uninvited guest. He knew Mycroft would read it as an insult and John meant every bit of it. He could be just as petty as them, when he wanted.

“John, need I remind you, my brother is in prison right now?” Mycroft asked churlishly, as if John’s making of the tea was somehow connected.

“Yes, and I’m quite surprised you haven’t actually managed to negotiate some way to get him out yet,” John said, pushing some of the pressure back Mycroft’s way. “Being the British Government, and all that.”

“Believe me, it’s not for lack of trying,” he conceded between tightly pursed lips. “I’ve disappointed _myself_ on that front.”

“Right, so what are we doing about it, then?” John asked, crossing his arms and glaring at the older man.

“We?” Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Well, you can’t expect me to do this all by myself?” He stalked back out into the loungeroom to argue. “Since you _both_ like to point out how useless I am, I’m obviously going to need some sort of Holmes genius with me to supervise!” he yelled, pointing a melodramatic eyeroll in Mycroft’s direction that Sherlock would have been proud of, before his gut gave a turn again at the thought of Sherlock not being here to see it.

“John,” Mycroft said, the full parental-level reproach clear in his voice at John’s unnecessary outburst.

“ _You_ either need to get Sherlock out, or you’re going to have to help _me_ ,” he threatened angrily through clenched teeth, after a calming breath to steady the conversation.

“Oh. I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?” Mycroft’s distaste was clear. His face spoke volumes; neither of them wanted to work together. Neither of them liked people in general. If it wasn’t with Sherlock, John wasn’t keen on working with other people, and neither was his brother. John was sure that Mycroft’s climb in the Government was purely a tactic, to have his own office and have the power to tell people when to piss off.

“No. Probably not. But what other choice do we have?” John asked. Mycroft sat with that for a moment, twirling his umbrella in thought.

“I assure you, Dr Watson, my brother is innocent.” 

John could see the wall come down for a very brief moment. Mycroft was scared, worried for his little brother, conscious that his constant formality might convey a lack of concern required by family.

“Of course he is,” John softened in sympathy. They were both scared. “I know that. Of _course_ I know that. You might think I’m an idiot but I’m not – not where he’s concerned. Not anymore. Sherlock could never—”

“Careful, Dr Watson,” Mycroft warned, suddenly. “ _Never_ is a strong word, and you haven’t known him all that long really…”

John was taken aback by the statement and didn’t know how to respond. He suddenly felt very tired. The shock of the dream, the shock of the whole morning in fact, finally wearing him down. He put his face in his hands for a moment.

“… but in this case I think you might be right,” Mycroft finally admitted, and John let out an audibly shaky sigh, some of the tension finally letting go at the fact that they could agree on this.

“Well then, let’s get to work,” John said with false bravado, returning to the kitchen to make them both tea in a show of concession. His hand unconsciously checked his ribs again, his mind still not fully recovered.

“What was the dream about?” Mycroft asked, raising his voice for John to hear over the kettle.

“Oh, just nonsense, really. Case related dribble. A trip to the morgue, some more arguments with Sherlock in his cell. Just anxiety driven I suspect.”

“Hmmm,” Mycroft hummed in interest. John was sure the man had heard enough earlier to know it was more than that, but he wasn’t going to give Mycroft the satisfaction of the full truth.

“He didn’t mean what he said, you know, John. That is to say, I assume you already know that.”

It was very unlike Mycroft to be reassuring, or kind, even. John walked over with the tea he’d made, placing one on the coffee table. He noted the distinct smell of alcohol about Mycroft and raised an eyebrow in curiosity but said nothing. He took himself to his armchair, cupping his own tea protectively for moral support, not commenting on Mycroft’s platitude.

“Mycroft, I’m loath to ask this question but… what was he… doing with that woman?”

“How would I know?” Mycroft asked, surprised and defensive, looking up from his tea.

“You watch him… like a hawk. I know you do. You watch _both_ of us,” John stated flatly. The very thought that Mycroft would assume John didn’t know that by now, was a little insulting.

“I’m surprised you would ask a question like that. I thought you two were… happy?” he asked, goading John’s unstable mood.

“I mean we are… we _were_ … I thought.” John was exasperated by Mycroft’s constant coyness on the subject – there had been many previous arguments on the topic of Mycroft’s over-involvement in their relationship since Sherlock’s return. “But it’s been a bit… strained lately, what with him being stuck in the flat so long. He was eager to get out. Surely you already know?”

“Despite what you may think, and out of respect for my brother, I don’t have cameras in _every_ part of the flat,” he conceded.

“Well that’s very kind of you,” John said sarcastically, sipping aggressively at his tea, the liquid burning his tongue. 

“But I have seen enough to… assume that things had been going… reasonably well with the two of you, for the most part. But perhaps not?” he suggested. “I can see it in your posture. There’s definitely a…”

“A what?” John asked defensively, putting his tea down, annoyed that it was too hot to serve as a distraction from this uncomfortable conversation.

“A… _vibe_ ,” he over-enunciated with a sneer.

“Oh Mycroft. Don’t use _that_ word again… ever,” John retorted. “It doesn’t suit you at all.” He gave Mycroft a knowing look, and Mycroft responded with his own irritated look in return. He never liked it when john called him on his nonsense.

“Some people interest Sherlock or fascinate him on a scientific level. I don’t know if he has romance in his makeup. Neither of us seem to, in fact. But with you… well it’s the closest I’ve seen to him being romantic with anyone,” he offered.

“She was naked Mycroft,” John said flatly, not accepting his peace-offering.

“Yes I’ve seen the photos.”

“They were _together_ in a bar, apparently. And then she was naked in her hotel room and Sherlock was there,” John said, swallowing hard, the words harder to take than the hot tea.

“Yes John, but he was fully _clothed_. Doesn’t that seem strange?” Mycroft asked.

“Well yes, that is true but… maybe… he…” John couldn’t wrap his head around thoughts of the case facts when jealousy was interfering. He hated himself for it. After making Sherlock watch him traipse woman after woman through Baker Street, he had no right to it. What they had was very new and tainted by so much hurt which they were still working on, so much physical recovery that was still a barrier. There had been little time for proper romance yet. It was possible that Sherlock had become bored with him. It was John Watson’s greatest fear.

“Dr Watson, I think it’s ridiculous that we’re even considering whether Sherlock could do this or not. The question surely is: who would want to frame him?” Mycroft redirected.

“Well he certainly has a way of making enemies,” John offered, his mind not fully able to accept the hope Mycroft had planted there. Sherlock was clothed. Maybe he wasn’t out with this woman after all? Then John suddenly became suspicious. “Wait, Mycroft, what are you even doing here? I was under the impression that Sherlock was going to be released soon, but you’re _here_?”

“I was giving him some space. The last lot of questioning was… unpleasant to say the least. He was resting when I left him.”

“And?” John was well aware that Mycroft was leaving out some truths of his own.

“They can hold him for up to ninety-five hours,” Mycroft offered, sipping his tea again. It irked John that Mycroft seemed so calm about the situation.

“God help the poor officer in charge of watching him,” John retorted with a huff. “I hope you’re not leaving him there longer than necessary? On purpose?”

“John, please. I’m not a complete barbarian,” he replied in disgust. “They wanted to hold him until they had viewed the security footage.” 

“I see. And then?” John asked.

“And then we will know more.” Mycroft was being cagey, and John didn’t like it at all.

“Well that’s ridiculous! I can’t just sit here and—” 

John’s outburst was interrupted by Lestrade stepping into the doorway, knocking lightly on the door frame. Neither of them had even noticed the footsteps on the stairs.

“Knock, knock. Sorry to interrupt. I have someone here you might want to see…” and he stepped inside to reveal Sherlock, standing in the doorway, his coat wrapped around him, his head hanging sullenly, not able to look at John. 

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, running forward to grab him into a hug of relief. Sherlock didn’t move but looked up past John to see his brother, standing now to receive him. John realised he was getting no response from Sherlock and stepped back to look him over.

“You okay?” he asked, worried.

“Fine,” Sherlock said dismissively, as he stepped into the flat further, looking his brother up and down, before glancing back at Lestrade. Both of them were notably silent, awkward even. Neither had made the usual salutations one makes on arrival. It was unusual. He had already noted that Lestrade had been drinking, the man’s pores were leaking essence of distillery. Taking in his brother, he noticed the slightly less icy façade, the slightly tired, hungover eyes. 

“Are you…?” he asked Mycroft, his brow furrowing in thought as he tried to piece together the clues, looking back at Lestrade for a moment. Lestrade avoided all eye contact.

“What?” John asked instead, not understanding what was happening and seeing both men suddenly unwilling to speak.

“Nothing,” Sherlock shook his head to remove the perceived error in judgement, although he couldn’t shake the fact something was out of place. “Never mind.”

“Well,” Lestrade went on loudly, to change the subject, “the footage shows Sherlock leaving the club, before the woman. It doesn’t help us with his whereabouts in the meantime, but it is possible that he was elsewhere and arrived back on the scene after the attack. We’re looking for more footage, but the boss decided Sherlock could be released for now, back into your care, John,” Greg related to them.

“Well thank heavens for that,” John said, placing his arm around Sherlock’s waist, noticing how he leaned slightly into John’s touch but remained silent, distant. 

“Yes, thank you for arranging that and bringing him here,” Mycroft said, formally.

“Not a problem at all,” Greg said, with an uncomfortable throat clear, his hands finding their way to his coat pockets as he rocked uncomfortably on his feet for a moment under Mycroft’s compliment. “They’ve taken DNA samples and run a tox screen, John. They removed the pocket lining from his jacket – where the weapon was located – for further testing and scanned the rest of it too, but they decided to let him take the coat. I’ll have to go back now and finish some paperwork. In fact, there are a few things you may need to sign, Mycroft, as his next of kin,” he said, looking across at the older brother with a nod.

“Oh, of course,” Mycroft replied. “I can come with you now if that helps? Leave these two to get settled.”

“That would be great, thanks,” Greg accepted, hiding a slight smirk that was not lost on John, who was now watching them both a little closer too. But Sherlock had faded into the distance, staring blankly, looking very peaked. John was worried.

“Sherlock?” he asked, trying to get his attention.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock asked absently, his eyes still not focussing on John.

“Sorry,” John said gently, as he touched Sherlock’s shoulders, before looking to Mycroft, a little concerned.

“What?” Sherlock asked again, still confused.

“I’m going to take your coat off, all right?” John asked carefully as he started to move the coat gently off his shoulders. Greg and Mycroft watched as well, not wanting to move or frighten Sherlock, who was still not himself.

“Yes, all right… I just…” Sherlock began to say, his voice floating, his usual confidence lost. He pulled his hand out of his coat pocket and John noticed he was holding something.

“What’s that Sherlock?” he asked with urgency, stopping with the jacket part-way to touch at Sherlock’s hand now, eyes darting to Greg’s in concern. Greg froze as well, surprised.

“I don’t know… it was… in my other pocket,” he said casually, not really understanding what was happening.

“Put it down,” John said cautiously.

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“Put it down!” John said more forcefully as he ran to the kitchen. Greg and Mycroft stepped towards the coffee table to look at it.

John returned with a zip-lock bag and some tongs, grabbing at the small matchstick card and placing it inside the bag before sealing it and handing it to Greg.

“Good thinking, John,” Lestrade offered.

“Anything else in there?” John asked the confused mess of a man before him.

Sherlock shook his head but still looked befuddled.

“I’m going to go and run you a shower okay?” John offered, as he pulled the coat the rest of the way off and carefully handed it to Greg with a serious look.

Sherlock just nodded in compliance again, not moving.

“Well I’m pleased to see the police are doing such a stellar job of evidence checking,” Mycroft said to Greg with dripping sarcasm.

“Yes, I can’t say I’m happy about that. I’ll take this with me, John. And I think you’re right, I best take the coat back too. You just focus on Sherlock,” Greg offered, as he started back out the door.

Mycroft waited for a moment and watched as John began walking Sherlock carefully down the corridor to the bathroom, a hand on the small of his back to guide him. Sherlock’s feet scuffed against the floorboards as he dragged them lazily along, carrying his weight heavily.

John looked back and shared a worried look with Mycroft, as the older brother left to follow the detective back to the station. John led Sherlock to the bathroom and began to run the water to warm up. Sitting on the edge of the tub, he turned and looked at Sherlock who was still just standing there, in the saggy grey tracksuit provided by the station after they took his clothes for analysis. The baggy, unstylish attire only served to make Sherlock look more pathetic than his posture was already conveying. John looked at this man he loved, who only an hour ago had stabbed him in his dream. The relief of seeing him home and in the flesh, was both overwhelming and a little terrifying.

“John…” Sherlock suddenly said, finally making eye contact.

“Yes?” John felt like he was holding his breath, but he sat taller, giving Sherlock his full attention.

“I don’t think I did this…” Sherlock’s eyes were sad, confused.

It broke John’s heart. “Oh, Sherlock. I don’t think you did either,” he agreed, standing and walking closer to put a hand on each of Sherlock’s arms.

“I don’t know how to…” he began, unable to find the words, his face collapsing in puzzlement again.

“You don’t have to do _anything_ right now. Just relax. Just breathe. Have a soak under the water. If you think of anything, just yell out and I’ll come and jot it down and we can let Lestrade know. But you don’t have to do anything. Nothing at all.”

“John… I’m scared,” he finally admitted.

John tried to reassure them both, grabbing Sherlock gently on either side of his face to look him squarely in the eyes. “It’s going to be all right.”

“You don’t know that,” Sherlock replied. 

And John knew he was right.


	8. Chapter 8

John hung up the phone call with Greg. Walking into the kitchen, he found Sherlock having a plate of toast and a cup of tea. It still gave him a little thrill each time Sherlock was doing the right thing and looking after himself – especially after the state he had been in last night.

“Why did he call _you_ , and not me?” Sherlock sulked, without so much as a ‘good morning’. It was reassuring the see Sherlock had some of his temperament back as well.

“Sherlock, you aren’t allowed out on this case, we talked about that,” John said, with a huff of disbelief.

“Yes, but… well, I didn’t think you _meant_ it,” Sherlock replied sullenly, biting into his toast aggressively to show his disapproval.  
  


John grabbed the toast right out of Sherlock’s hand, and took a bite, before handing it back. He placed a kiss on Sherlock’s head in thanks – the unruly, soft curls tickling his nose.

“Greg will be round to get me soon and I’ll be heading out for the day,” John said as he breezed back towards the bedroom to get ready. “Mrs Hudson will be up to watch you shortly, and then your brother is coming over later,” he added loudly back down the corridor in warning.

  
“Oh great!” Sherlock called from the kitchen with loud mocked-enthusiasm.

“I heard that,” John shouted from the bedroom.  
  


“I _meant_ you to,” Sherlock yelled back again. He was silent for a time and John could imagine him sipping angrily at his tea, frustration buzzing through him at the whole situation. To Sherlock’s mind, it was preposterous that they would try and look at this case without his input. John could tell he was mostly just struggling to articulate his feelings on the topic.

“I don’t _need_ a watcher, you know. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself!” he crowed finally.

“Nope,” John replied, re-entering the kitchen freshly dressed in jeans and one of his irritatingly ugly-yet-adorable patterned sweaters, just because he knew it would rub Sherlock the wrong way. “The Sherlock I met at the crime scene yesterday says differently,” he said, giving Sherlock a warning glance as he grabbed the mug and took a sip.

“Get your own breakfast!” Sherlock shot at him.  
  


“No time,” John said with a smug smile, winking at him as he swallowed down the sweet liquid. Sherlock always had too much sugar in his tea. It made his wink turn into a squint for a moment; it hurt his teeth. He moved to the couch to put on his shoes, as he heard Greg run up the stairs and into the flat.

“All right boys?” he said brightly. Lestrade was always a morning person. He started to walk towards the kitchen.

“Almost ready,” John announced from behind him on the couch, Greg turning around in surprise.

“Oh I didn’t see you there,” he smiled at John.

“Apparently I’m _not_ required,” Sherlock said dramatically with an air of defiance from the kitchen.

“Ah well Sherlock, maybe next time, try not to hang out with a dead body?” Lestrade teased, as he walked into the kitchen and made himself at home sitting down at the table opposite Sherlock. Sherlock shot him a hateful glare which only made Greg smile more broadly back, looking to John who appreciated the joke a little better than his intended target. Greg grabbed the other piece of toast off the plate and took a bite, to which Sherlock delivered an overly dramatic gasp.

“Are you at least going to let me _talk_ about the case with John when he gets home?” Sherlock asked stubbornly.

“Well, according to the rule book, no. You really shouldn’t. Buuut… if you _happened_ to hear something from your flatmate when I’m not around to know about it, well I can’t really stop you. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. If you get my drift.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The space station can catch your drift from up there. It’s not subtle.”

Greg’s face dropped a little at the insult, but he couldn’t think of another retort, so he just sat awkwardly waiting, watching Sherlock read the paper, until John leapt up from the sofa.

“Right then,” he announced, walking towards the kitchen. He checked his jeans pocket for his wallet and keys again, nervously, and glanced back over at Sherlock who was trying to act like he wasn’t mortally wounded by being left behind. “I’ll be back in the evening I suspect – depending on how much we have to do,” he said.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, not looking up from the paper.

“There’s beans, and there’s eggs, and there’s some of that left-over curry in the fridge too,” John fussed some more, feeling guilty about leaving.

“Great,” Sherlock said, unenthused, still looking at the newspaper on the table beside him and pretending not to care.

“Sherlock?” John asked, unsure if he was really listening, and wanting to at least make eye contact before he left for the day.

“Yes, yes John, I’ll be fine,” he said, annoyed, with a little flick of his hand to shoo John away, still not looking up, though.

John stood watching the back of his head a moment longer, just long enough for Mrs Hudson to appear at the door.

“Hoo, hoo!” she called cheerily as she cleared the doorway.

“Oh great, _everyone’s_ here now,” Sherlock moaned.

John didn’t acknowledge her, he was still distracted by Sherlock’s stubbornness. Greg filled the silence by saying a hello as he got up from the table, giving her a compensatory smile. She watched John, her face dropping with worry.

“He’ll be all right, love. I’ll make sure he eats and rests,” she reassured him, giving his arm a squeeze as she walked by him and into the kitchen.

John nodded, and let out a breath, as Greg walked over to him. “Right then,” he said, gesturing for Greg to lead the way out. He felt guilty and very strange heading out on a case without Sherlock. He could understand how Sherlock must be struggling with it as well. Once they got out onto the street though, he felt more at peace. He knew he had work to do, they had a purpose now. If they were going to make things right for Sherlock, he needed to focus.

“So, where to first?” he asked.

“Well Donovan tried to get the extra footage from the bar but apparently the owner was being a little bit unhelpful.”

“Great, let’s go there. I have a whole bunch of pent up rage inside me that I need to let out.”

Greg laughed. “Right then. I’ll make sure I look the other way.”

“Yeah, you do that,” John said with a raise of his eyebrows, but he smiled in comradeship as they headed to Greg’s car.

___________________

John was a little disappointed that he didn’t, in fact, get to use up his rage on the club owner. He _did_ get to raise his voice, but what he really wanted, was to scruff someone up – just a bit – to let out the frustration he was feeling.

The footage from the other cameras in the club clearly showed Sherlock flirting with the purple-haired girl, both of them behaving flirtatiously, in fact. John swallowed hard as he watched it, trying to push down the jealousy that swirled in his stomach. In all the time they had known each other, Sherlock had been disinterested in anyone, in _everyone_ , especially women. Except for _The_ woman, of course. And Sherlock had never really had to use his sexual wiles to get information from women on a case either. John couldn’t tell if it was an act, or if he was legitimately flirting. Their own relationship had been founded on years of non-communication and stolen moments that were misinterpreted. Did Sherlock actually have some flirting game that John had never seen in action?

“Wait, what’s that? She handed him something,” John suddenly noticed, pointing at the screen.

They both watched the footage a few times but couldn’t place it. “A business card perhaps? Maybe her number?” Greg said, to which John gave him a shocked look. “Well what would _you_ say it is then?”

“No, you’re right. It does look like that,” John agreed begrudgingly. I just don’t understand why he took it! Or could it be the matchstick card he had in his pocket?”

“Could be,” Greg conceded, but there was not enough of the right angle to really identify it with any certainty.

The footage also clearly showed Sherlock leaving the hotel, without the woman, and getting into a cab outside. _Definitely not with her, then_ , John thought to himself. He noted down the time stamps on each of the cameras and confirmed that the security guards in the footage were indeed on shift at the time the footage displayed, to ensure the noted times were, in fact, correct. They thanked the club owner and moved on. Nothing entirely helpful or new.

___________________

Next stop was the morgue. John was a little bit apprehensive about walking in there after his strange dream. He knew it was silly, but his heart rate started thudding against his chest when he walked down the familiar corridor to Molly’s space – a sense of déjà vu making him feel almost dizzy. He paused for a moment outside the door.

“John?” Greg checked.

“Yes, coming,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment to steel himself.

“Are you okay? If this is too much—”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just… long story. I’m fine. Lead the way,” he reassured, trying his best to smile.

As they walked in, Molly looked up from the microscope she was working at.

“John! Greg,” she offered with a bright smile, before awkwardly adjusting her lab-coat as she remembered why they were here. John secretly loved that about Molly. She was surrounded by dead bodies but always managed to be cheery.

“Molly, how’s things?” Greg asked, entering the space with the confidence of someone who frequented morgues for a living. It felt strange following Greg in though, instead of Sherlock.  
  


“Oh you know, work’s busy, but I seem to be the only one complaining,” she said with a little snort.

_Morgue jokes, some of her best work,_ John thought to himself. But he didn’t smile. He couldn’t stop his heart from hammering. It felt even more intrusive in such a quiet space, he was sure they could hear it. The fact that Greg and Molly were chatting casually only irritated him more.

“You had something for me?” Greg pressed on.

“Yes, there’s been a second body brought in. Well, a first body really, I suppose. It got here before your young lady did,” Molly said enthusiastically, grabbing for her notes. “Actually shouldn’t have even been brought here – came from Chelmsford. Must have had a clerical error. But here he is. Point blank shot to the head.”

“Faked suicide,” John said as an aside to Greg, without thinking.

“What? How… what made you say that?” Molly asked, looking at him suspiciously.

Greg looked at him as well, and John realised what he had said, his face dropping suddenly at the realisation.

“Oh… sorry…” he said nervously, looking between them both.

But neither of them moved, both staring at him strangely. John blushed under the scrutiny and realised that not only had he _not_ had this conversation with Molly already, but he had imagined it all in his head, and in fact, it probably didn’t help Sherlock’s cause if he was coming in here sprouting possible case knowledge he shouldn’t have.

“Sorry, just ignore me. You didn’t tell me that. I…” he let out a sigh of resignation. “I actually _dreamt_ it,” he admitted, the blush deepening on his skin at the humiliation.

“Right,” Molly said, giving Greg another side glance before continuing on. “Well we thought it was a suicide at first, you’re actually right. But in fact, no. It was just a run of the mill assassination style murder,” she continued as she walked over to open the appropriate fridge compartment where the body was being kept.

“Tattoos?” John asked, again not meaning to. This time he put his hand over his face as Greg moved closer and nudged him to be quiet.

“Sorry?” she asked, turning around.

John looked to Greg first, who gave him the go-ahead to continue asking, now that he had already blurted it out. “Were there any tattoos?” he asked with more confidence.

“Yes, actually. Both bodies have a number of tattoos. Not surprising by the look of them both. There could be a link there, I suppose. I’d have to look into it, though. I haven’t really delved that far into the details just yet.”

“Could you?” John asked, feeling the need to justify his sanity a little bit, and taking out his notebook to write that down for himself as well.

“John, that must have been one hell of a dream you had,” Molly commented.

“Yes, it definitely was,” he said, without looking up, pretending to busy himself with the note pad.

“Pretty sure you’re not psychic or anything, though, right?” Molly joked with a little giggle.

“No, no,” he laughed nervously, still not willing to look at her. “Definitely not.”

“Probably just took in more details at the crime scene than you realised and processed it in your sleep. Sherlock would have _all manner_ of theories for you on mind palaces,” she added affectionately. She could never hide her admiration of Sherlock, even after finding out they were together. There was an awkward silence after she realised her error. “How is he anyway?” she asked nervously to regroup.

  
“He’s not himself at the moment,” Greg replied, when John was suddenly unsure how to answer.

“Well John, don’t worry,” she continued to reassure him. “He has been through a traumatic couple of years. It’s going to take him a while to get back to normal.”

“If you could _ever_ call him that,” Greg retorted under his breath.

“Well there is that,” John smiled at them both, grateful to have friends in that moment.

“Molly, can I take these photos?” Greg asked, noticing them all on the bench. She had documented all the body markings and injuries from her autopsies on them.

“Sure, I have more copies, digitally,” she said absently.

“Thanks,” Greg replied, as his phone rang interrupting them. “Excuse me.” He stepped away to take the call in the corridor.

“Sorry, Molly – about before. God, that was embarrassing,” John finally said now that Greg was out of earshot.

“Are you okay John?” Molly asked, with concern. “I mean obviously this will be tough on Sherlock, but you must be finding it difficult too.” Molly was always so kind and thoughtful and far better to John and Sherlock than either of them really deserved.

“It was a rough day yesterday, truth be told,” he said, leaning against the bench, suddenly feeling tired from it all.

“It’s been a rough _year_ , I’d say,” she added.  
  


“Well that too yes. But we’ll be okay,” he tried to reassure her – and himself. “Now tell me about why you called,” he redirected.

“Right, yes,” Molly snapped back into business mode. “Well it seems that both this gentleman, and your victim, were wearing the same ring on their right hand.”

“Oh?” John pushed back off the bench to right himself, interested now, and walked over to the body bag as Molly pulled it out of the fridge.

“Yes, I had already removed it from the other body, the guy. But I noticed it as soon as I opened her bag this morning and called Greg straight away.” She unzipped it enough to lift the hand out of the bag and show John. He tilted his head to the side to look. An intricate sort of Celtic knotted design in silver was wrapped around her right ring finger.

“And your other body had the same ring?” he asked.

“Exactly the same,” she confirmed.

“Could they have been married? A couple?”

“Not sure. Neither of them came up in the system. And I mean, _at all_.”  
  


“How can that be possible?” John asked, as Molly zipped the bag up again, and walked over to her computer to show him.

“No records, no trace of any identity. They had no identification on them, and their prints are coming up with an unusual error code in the system that I’ve never seen before.”

Greg wandered back into the room, just as Molly was showing John at the computer.

“Have you ever seen this before, Greg?” John asked, pointing over Molly’s shoulder at the screen.

Greg moved closer and had a look. “No, can’t say that I have. Hang on, let me take a photo of it and I’ll ask about it at the Yard. Could be classified files or something?” Greg suggested, as he captured it on his phone.

“Maybe military?” John asked, although he’d never heard of that particular clearance block either. Not that he’d had much need to look at sealed records in that way, during his duty.  
  


“Maybe. Can’t say I’ve ever come across it,” Molly added.

“Right, well keep us in the loop if you find anything else Molly,” Greg said with a nod, directing John to follow him out.

“Let us know if the tattoos give you any joy?” John added, hopeful that his ridiculous dream-related outbursts weren’t for nothing.

“Will do, psychic John,” she said with a mock salute and a giggle.

John paused, giving her an awkward smile to make sure she didn’t feel too bad about the terrible joke. He was used to it – his usual routine after Sherlock left the room, usually after saying something offensive. He and Molly had a whole friendship based on strange glances around Sherlock’s back and in his absence.

“Everything alright?” John said, as they walked out to the corridor.

“Yes, Anderson found something. From the card in Sherlock’s pocket.”

“Oh, great. So back to the Yard?”

“No. Off to another club.”

“Another…?” John’s mood dropped. _What the hell did you get up to Sherlock Holmes?_


	9. Chapter 9

John’s silence in the car as they drove was so violent, it took on a life of its own, almost enough to be an extra passenger. He was fuming. Greg wasn’t sure how best to tackle it.

“So… everything okay?” He asked tentatively, trying desperately to make conversation and give John an opportunity to talk.

  
“Pfft, yeah sure. As ‘okay’ as it’s going to be when your drug-infested boyfriend gets accused of murdering some woman he apparently tried to pick up, after a night on the town,” John barked at the glass as he looked out the window, his arms crossed angrily against his chest.

  
“Yeah fair enough,” Greg said, not adding more. They sat in silence for a bit until John apparently couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“Greg I… I know I’m… I’m stupidly loyal to Sherlock, and I really _want_ him to be innocent, but I’m genuinely terrified that he did this.” He looked across at Greg, who took his eyes off the road just long enough to make eye contact and convey some sympathy for John. “The more we see, the more I…” he couldn’t finish the thought.

  
“Yeah, me too,” Greg admitted quietly.  
  


“Right, well then. Whatever we investigate, I’m going to try to stay impartial, though,” John promised.

“Okay, good. But listen, if he is…” Greg began.  
  


“Greg…” John warned, clearly not wanting to say it aloud.

  
“If he _is guilty_ ,” Greg pushed on, “we’ll deal with that when we get there,” he offered.  
  


“Okay,” John accepted. “Okay.” He nodded as he looked out at the passing scenery, but Greg knew he wasn’t really taking any of it in.

  
“And you’re not alone,” Greg added.  
  


“Thanks. It’s just… I’ve only just got him back, you know?” John’s sadness started to peek through, his voice cracking a bit and Greg’s heart gave a little squeeze. He knew just how hard it had been for himself, after Sherlock had gone. The guilt, the anger, the bargaining. The utter relief he had felt on realising it had all been some ploy, was overwhelming. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how it had felt for John.

  
“I know. I know, mate. It’s not ideal,” was all he could manage in support.  
  


“It just feels… it feels like déjà vu, you know? He’s in the spotlight, again, and everyone doubts him – even me – and he’s pulling away again.” John swallowed hard. “Last time…”

  
“John, it’s not going to be like last time,” Greg reassured him, firmly.  
  


“Yeah well, _last time_ he jumped off a bloody building and I didn’t see him for…”

  
“I know. Okay? I know. You just need to trust in the legal system,” Greg tried.  
  


“Yeah ‘cause that works _so_ well,” John retorted sarcastically.  
  


“Yeah, well it’s all we’ve got. Trust in the legal system. And the rest is down to us to find the right evidence.”  
  


“No pressure,” John added with a mirthless laugh.

“Right?” Greg agreed, with a huff. They sat in silence for a few minutes more. “It’s going to be okay,” he finally added.

  
“You don’t know that,” John said, looking across at Greg and his eyes were damp, and he looked more scared than Greg had seen him look before.  
  


“Yeah okay. I _don’t_ know that. But I’m hoping,” Greg gave him a gentle smile of reassurance before returning his eyes to the road.  
  


“Yeah me too,” John nodded, looking back out his window.

  
“Just… hang in there, okay? Sherlock needs you to hang in there. He might be behaving like he doesn’t want you around. But he’s just scared. He’s _scared_. And he loves you. I’ve never seen him like that with anyone else.”

  
“Thanks Greg.”  
  


“Yeah. No problem.”

“Oh Greg, wait!” John suddenly cried out, making Greg put his foot on the break in fright. Luckily the traffic on Strand was quieter than usual. “The Diogenese Club.”

“What?” Greg slowed but kept driving.

  
“I’ve just had an idea. Go straight through the Mall at Trafalgar,” he pointed ahead.

“What?” Greg was confused but followed John’s instructions.

“You need information, and we know someone that can get us that,” he said.

“Who?”

“Mycroft!”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, is it?” Greg said a little too quickly, suddenly feeling his palms get sweaty and his face go cold and clammy.

“I can’t think of a better person to be placed to look into people’s records for us. The Diogenes is right up ahead. It’s mid-morning, I guarantee he’s there,” John demanded, and Greg couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough. They found a street park nearby and walked quickly to the imposing white building.

“Just…” John held out a hand to stop Greg for a moment as they got close. “… don’t talk in the front room. They don’t like it,” John said with an eye-roll.

“Something tells me you’ve done that before,” Greg mused.

“More than once actually.”

___________________

Fortunately the man at the front counter didn’t look familiar and after Greg showed his credentials, they were welcomed in and taken to a back room. John knew that Mycroft had taken to working from there to avoid distractions on certain days.

“Mycroft,” John said with an air of confidence he didn’t really feel, as he entered. This place was so intimidating, as was clearly the intention. He did enjoy the complete look of surprise their entry created on Mycroft’s face, though.

“John… Greg… How lovely. Tea?” he said far too brightly.

John cleared his throat and gave Mycroft a stern look.

“Scotch then?” he returned haughtily.

  
“Please,” John agreed. He had never once made a visit to Mycroft at the Diogenese that was tea-worthy.

“Rough morning already?” he teased, to which John only gave him another look. He had already been on the phone to Mycroft earlier, during which Sherlock had been ranting in the background. He knew perfectly well what kind of morning they had been having. “Greg?” he offered.  
  


“No, I’m on duty,” he said, blushing slightly, standing awkwardly to the side as John settled into one of the leather chairs, far more comfortable with asserting himself into Mycroft’s space.

“So we have a lead,” John began as he accepted the crystal glass of amber liquid.

“Oh yes?” Mycroft replied, leaning back against his desk to listen.

“But we may need to delve into some government systems to cross check,” John added.

“Of course, anything you need,” he replied more formally, before flicking his eyes to Greg, who turned away to look at the bookshelves suddenly with great interest.

It didn’t go unnoticed by John, as he watched and took a sip of his scotch. _Oh Mycroft always had the good stuff,_ he noted as it went down smoothly. “What’s… what’s going on here?” he asked them.

“Nothing,” Mycroft and Greg both answered, in tandem, and far too quickly to be convincing.

“Are you two? Was Sherlock…” John looked back and forth between them a couple of times. Something was definitely going on. “Forget it. I don’t want to know. Let’s just focus on the case right now, okay?” he said, feeling like a parent scolding his naughty children. “We need Sherlock to get through this first.”

“Agreed,” Greg said, firmly.

“Agreed,” Mycroft added, tipping his glass to John in salute, but not able to hide the slight smirk as he looked in Greg’s direction.

“Great. Greg… you’ve got the files?” John asked, catching him staring at Mycroft again.

“What? Oh yes, sorry,” he fumbled as he held the folder up from under his arm and brought it forward to hand to Mycroft, who then walked around his desk to sit and look at it properly.

“Two victims now, with matching rings. Lots of tattoos, unsavoury characters. Could be gang related in some way, but their IDs are not coming up in our system with anything.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mycroft offered, holding Greg’s gaze a little longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” Greg replied. “Also… the second case is not really in my jurisdiction. There will be some red tape. And Molly’s attempt to check them came up with this.” He handed over his phone with the screen shot of Molly’s computer.

“Interesting…” Mycroft nodded slowly. “I’ll look into it.” He looked over at John, who had lost interest in their dealings and was looking at a photo frame on the desk. It had never really caught his attention before. It was a photograph of Mycroft and Sherlock. It wasn’t that old, but they were clearly a bit younger. Sherlock had fewer wrinkles in his forehead and Mycroft had more hair. They were laughing, they looked… happy. John felt something squeeze inside him.

“John…” Mycroft began gently, seeing the expression on his face.

“Listen Mycroft, I know… I know that you disapprove.”

“What? What makes you think that?” Mycroft answered, surprised by the statement.

“I’m sure you think he deserves better. Than me. That this is somehow _my_ doing.”  
  


“Oh John, he loves you. Fiercely. After everything we went through to get him back… everything you did to care for him… I have nothing but respect for you. He’s just scared right now. And… I think he thinks _you_ deserve better than _this_. I think he’s worried that… if it turns out he’s guilty… he doesn’t want the burden on you,” Mycroft said. John sat with it for a moment. It was far more emotion than Mycroft had ever let him see before.

  
“The burden’s on me already. The minute I met him I took that on,” John told him.

“I know that. And deep down _he_ knows that. He’s just not used to people sticking around. It was always just him and me.”

“I understand,” John said, closing his eyes in frustration. “I understand what you’re saying but…”

“Our parents were… they didn’t do anything wrong, John. They were good parents. There was just something in our makeup that made us this way. They were busy with work, and we were always so self-sufficient. So much so, that they let us continue that way. We never needed anyone. And… perhaps because of that, it’s made it harder for us to accept that people…” he glanced at Greg for a moment, catching his eye. “… that _friends_ can be there, through everything.”

John nodded, processing that, deciding not to push it further. “Mycroft… thank you.”

“My pleasure, John. I trust you completely with his care. I meant that when I first said it. And I will do what I can to help with the information,” he said, looking to Greg again. “Can I hold onto these for an hour or so?” he asked, pointing at the file. “I’ll bring them back to Baker Street this afternoon, once I’ve had a chance to look them over.”

John noticed Greg flush slightly but nod in thanks before walking out at a very fast pace. John placed his glass on the side table.

“Thanks Mycroft. See you this evening,” he offered in a rush as he followed Greg out, his legs unable to keep up with him as they left the building in a hurry. John had to jog to catch up to Greg before he was left behind.

“What was _that_?” he asked as they got into the car.

“What?” Greg asked, dismissively.

  
“You… and him? What _was_ that?” John demanded.

  
“Nothing.”

“Greg—”

“It’s nothing!”

“Oh my god… you _like_ him. Was Sherlock right? Is something going on? What about your wife?”

“She moved in with the P.E. teacher,” Greg said, irritated.

“Oh.” John sat with that for a moment, not sure they were close enough for him to delve into that chasm yet.

“I mean… _you_ understand how it is,” Greg scoffed.

“What? No!” The very thought that John understood what he meant was confusing.

“You’re with Sherlock. You know… the whole… Mysterious Holmes brothers with their…”

“Okay, shut up. Stop right now. I’m sorry I asked,” John said with an eyeroll. “Let’s just focus back on the case all right?!” He shook his head awkwardly, not ready to tackle this conversation with Greg of all people.

“Ok, whatever you say,” Greg smirked to himself.

John was blushing and gave him a side glance again before looking out the window and letting out a shiver of disgust. “Where to next then?” he finally asked.

“Uh… The nightclub. Anderson’s tip-off.”

“Oh right, yes, lead the way,” he said, before suddenly letting out a laugh. “Imagine if Anderson actually broke this case and saved Sherlock.”

“Oh I would pay good money to see Sherlock’s face if that happened,” Greg laughed.


	10. Chapter 10

The second club was across town from the first one. Sherlock had been seen on the footage, leaving in a cab. Anderson believed he headed there next.

“Fabric?” John asked as they walked up to the club, reading the sign above the door. “Isn’t that the one that was in the news for—”  
  


“Yes. Metro have been trying to control the drugs here. Kid died last week, wasn’t even twenty-two,” Greg said with a sigh. Some days he hated his job, seeing into this world.

“Bloody hell,” John let out in frustration. “Well I’m guessing we know where Sherlock got his hit from then.”

“We’re not jumping to any conclusions, remember?” Greg said gently, before stepping inside, leaving John to follow.

“It’s walking distance from bloody Barts, Greg,” John said under his breath in disgust. “It’s probably not even his first visit here.” His voice prickled with distrust and Greg was trying to think as fast as possible of ways to keep John calm.

“John—” he started, in an attempt to pull him into line before the staff heard.

“Can I help you?” a weedy looking young man interrupted as they entered the space.

Greg presented his badge which caught the man’s attention and he nodded to the mezzanine above – where a man stood in the shadows – before moving back behind the bar to clean glasses. Greg took in the club while he waited. It was not his first trip to a nightclub during closing, but it never ceased to amaze him just how unimpressive they were by the light of day. The black paint, the sticky floors, the bright fluoro lights. The place looked a mess. Even the couch upholstery was uglier in the day. _Amazing what some fancy lighting and a crowd can do to create a mood,_ he thought.

He had been in here before, on at least one of the offending drugs busts, although he hadn’t been on duty to deal with the dead kid last week. He was as unhappy as John clearly was, that Sherlock had been anywhere _near_ this place.

“Gentlemen,” the owner cooed as he came down the stairs to their level. “Danny Everitt,” he said, offering his hand to Greg for a firm handshake. His cologne was far too overpowering, making Greg’s stomach lurch. He needed to eat, and the smell was not helping, making his empty gut gurgle loudly.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Greg replied, “and this is Doctor John Watson, my consultant,” he added.

John shook his hand and looked him square in the eyes with a full military-level threat, to establish that he was ready for anything. Greg would have to watch him closely. John had warned that he was pitching for a battle earlier.

“My colleague will have called ahead,” Greg said, trying to assert authority and take over from John.

“He’s here, already, looking at the footage,” Everitt stated, a little surprised they didn’t already know.

“Oh? Great. Point the way,” Greg directed, looking to John, and checking his mood. John was busy looking around, but he suspected it was with a calculating eye. He was probably busy imagining his partner spending time in this underwhelming space.

They followed the owner around a cave of ugly black corridors and through a doorway to the back area of the club – a caged space with broken furniture, cases of liquor, and a small desk surrounded by screens. It smelled musty and Greg was sure they were sharing the space with at least one family of rats.

“Anderson,” Greg acknowledged, as the man came into view.

“Sorry sir, I thought it might be best if I met you here. I have the match-card after all.”

“Right, no problem. What have you found?” Greg asked him, secretly impressed with his initiative. He knew that Anderson had returned to work reluctantly but with an odd sparkle in his eye about Sherlock Holmes since his return. He would be relishing trying to help clear his idol now.

John stayed quiet behind Greg, clearly apprehensive at this point.

“John,” Anderson said with a nod in his direction, and John gave him a slight rise in his lips that could pass as a polite smile, before he looked back to Greg.

“Well, he was definitely here. Time stamp matches what you said,” Anderson began to report, as he sat back in the chair and allowed Greg and John to huddle in beside him to look at the screens.

Everitt stood back, leaning against the cage, watching quietly and ensuring everything stayed above board to his liking.

“He left the club across town and came here. The match-card,” he said as he pulled the evidence bag from his coat pocket and handed it to Greg, “is from _this_ club.”

“So…?” John was confused.

“I believe he was given this as a means of directing him here. Didn’t you say the lady in the other club handed him something?” Anderson checked.

“Yes…” John confirmed.

Anderson put his hand on the bag in Greg’s hand now guiding him to flip it over. “She wrote her room number on the back,” he added.

“I don’t understand,” John said.

Greg stood with the information for a moment. “You think she gave him her hotel room number but sent him here first? To what—?”

“Not sure. Grab them a hit first?” Anderson suggested, looking cautiously in John’s direction.

John shuffled his feet, transferring his weight and not speaking.

“Possible,” Greg replied, with a dubious nod.

“And before you ask, that _is_ her room number, where her body was found,” he added.

“So she must have told him about the hotel, written down the room number for him on the card and given him some verbal instructions? We saw them talking on the tape before he left,” Greg confirmed.

“Right. By the timing, he came straight from there with the match-card in hand, to this location. He may have gone back to her hotel after. There’s still some time unaccounted for though. Depending on how long he was here.” Anderson looked to Greg proudly. He had done good work, and Greg was definitely impressed. John was clearly not. “Donovan is scouring the hotel camera footage back at the Yard to find out when he arrived there.”

Greg nodded, as he watched the footage and listened to Anderson, each screen a black and white mural of people and movement. “There!” he finally announced, pointing to the top left screen.

Sure enough, there was Sherlock, clear as day, walking into the club, pushing through the crowd. They all stopped and watched the footage, not speaking. He went to the bar, leaned across it and whispered in the bartender’s ear. John had not moved, and Greg could feel the heat coming off him. It was like static electricity building up and waiting to strike. He knew this side to John well – had seen it on more than one case. Chinning the chief super-intendant had been a particularly memorable one, though he admitted he missed seeing that magic moment in person. He only had Sally’s account to go by, but it sounded magnificent. He did remember the way John had gone from fidgeting fury, to predatorially still, letting the anger build. It was not a good sign when John got like that.

The bartender on screen had shaken his head and pointed somewhere else in the club. Sherlock had moved away from the bar, out of view of the first camera. Without speaking, all their eyes drifted across the other screens trying to locate him again, which didn’t take long. The coat was anything but camouflage. Sherlock was recognisable anywhere in that coat. Somehow he had shuffled with cat-like tread up the stairs, out of view, to the mezzanine level. The camera caught him introducing himself to someone up there, shaking hands and starting a conversation, each of them leaning in close to talk in the other’s ear.

Greg looked away for a moment, moving the match book around in his hand. “Is that blood?” he asked suddenly, and John looked over, alert again. Anderson didn’t move, he didn’t need to. He already knew the answer.

“Yes. Not _hers_ though…” he said casually. “I’m guessing… _his?”_ he said, and they both looked at the screen to see the man Sherlock had been talking to crumple to the ground. Anderson rewound the tape and sure enough, Sherlock had punched him, square on.

“That’s one of our regulars,” Everitt offered, with annoyance, from the side of the room.

“Dealer?” John asked with an undertone of a threat, but Everitt kept his mouth shut and ignored the question. John rolled his eyes and took the lack of an answer as confirmation, looking back at the footage as Sherlock walked away and back down the stairs calmly.

It took a moment for him to appear on another screen, but he headed straight off to the side again, and out of sight from that camera angle. As their heads all bobbed around, looking for him on each screen, Everitt added: “he headed in the direction of the bathrooms. We don’t have cameras there.”

They kept the footage running with no sign of Sherlock anywhere. The time without relevant footage seemed to last forever.

“He looked unstable already. Don’t you think he looked unstable already?” John asked, hopefully.

Greg knew what John was trying to check. Was Sherlock in the bathrooms getting a hit from this dealer? Or, was he already on something before he got to the club? Or _both_? Greg had been thinking the same thing.

“Hard to tell isn’t it? Especially when he’s already been weaker than usual since… could be fatigue, could be his meds? Could have had something else on the cab ride over,” Greg said, certain this guesswork wasn’t really helpful.

“Hmmm,” John hummed in thought, and Greg hoped he was remaining as impartial as he had promised to be. “There!” John finally called out, finding Sherlock on a screen.

Whatever state he had been in before, there was little doubt about his state now. He was stumbling more than he had before, and instead of moving out of the club, he went straight into the middle of the crowd – right onto the dancefloor.

Greg was mesmerised for a moment. Sherlock was floating on air, not a care in the world. It was a rare occasion to see him so… _joyful_ , he thought for a moment. He was dancing with his arms in the air, clearly attracted to the lights of the club, and evidently not conscious of anything or anyone else around him. Greg had been so distracted by the footage, that he had completely missed the moment John snapped.

One minute he heard conversation in the background while he watched the footage, the next second, John had Everitt pinned against the cage wires, hand at his throat and screaming into his face.

“Hey, hey hey!” Greg shouted, running over to pull John off the club owner. “What the hell John?!”

Anderson didn’t get up from his chair, just turned to watch it, probably relieved he wasn’t involved, and grateful that he had never ended up on John’s bad side like that.

“You greasy bastard!” John spat at him as Greg held on for dear life. “ _That man_ ,” he pointed back at the screen without taking his eyes off Everitt, “is recovering from… _so much_ and you let dirty pricks like _that_ into your club to sell drugs. Don’t you _dare_ tell me it’s not your doing!” he tried to pull away from Greg and spring at him again. Everitt dodged to the side nervously, and Greg firmed his grip around John’s midsection.

“Hey, John. That’s enough,” he said firmly, pulling him further away.

“Look at him Greg! Look at Sherlock! He’s off his fucking face!” John yelled, his voice breaking as he pushed away from Greg’s grip and started pacing, his eyes looking guiltily towards the screens again, where Anderson had returned to watching it dutifully, silently, ignoring the goings on behind him.

Greg could see that John knew he was in the wrong but was never going to admit to it.

“Sorry about that, it’s been a rough couple of days,” Greg offered, helping Everitt straighten his shirt and his jacket.

“Sure, not a problem,” Everitt said with a professional air, but keeping his eyes fixed on John warily. “Just keep him in check, though,” he warned. “I don’t have to show you this without a warrant you know, that was a favour.”  
  


“Let’s not start playing tit for tatt, mate,” Greg replied. “I’m sure I could have you shut down pretty quick smart. That man’s brother could have you completely erased,” Greg assured him with renewed confidence, flicking a glance at John, who was wired and still pacing, but focussed back on the screens.

“Who’s that?” John suddenly asked, walking forward to get a better look at the screens and Greg left Everitt to come closer as well.

“Where?” Anderson asked.  
  
“There,” he pointed to someone in a dark hoody that almost slithered towards Sherlock on the dancefloor. The two of them went about dancing for a moment or two and then the hooded person leaned in and started trying to talk to Sherlock, until hands began moving all over him, and Sherlock was clearly enjoying it. Suddenly, in an unmistakably calculated move, the hooded stranger leaned in, closer, if that was possible, kissing Sherlock’s neck and, while he was distracted by the onslaught, the crowd parted just enough to catch the lights glinting off a silver blade, as it was slipped into Sherlock’s coat pocket.


	11. Chapter 11

“John!” Greg yelled out as he tried to catch up to him, storming down the street away from the club. “John stop!”

“You think he’s guilty!” John turned on him suddenly, the accusation in his tone clear.

“What? I never said anything!” Greg replied, frustrated.

“I saw your face in there. You think he did this now, don’t you?” John yelled, starting to pace in front of him.

“No.” Greg kept his answer simple. Now was not the time to reason with John in this state.

“I _saw_ you! You think he got that weapon from that person in the club and went off to kill that woman.”

“No, John, that’s not…”

“That’s what it looks like isn’t it? Can’t be a frame job if he took the bloody thing along to the hotel room while he was high as a kite, can it?! Greg, tell me I’m wrong,” John demanded. His voice was pure anger, but his face was one hundred percent frightened.

“John, just take a breath,” Greg said, holding a hand out to try and calm him, as if he were suddenly a lion tamer. He felt ridiculous, and he dropped his hand before it made John angrier.

“I was hoping after… after _last_ time, you might try and stay impartial a bit longer. That you might trust in him when…”  
  


“When _what_?!” Greg yelled back defensively, his patience running out. “When _you_ can’t, you mean?!”

John stopped, stunned. His face dropped, and Greg realised he had hit too close to the bone. He hadn’t intended to lash out. John was just pushing all the right buttons. He was right, though. It did _not_ look good. He knew that. They both did. They had really hoped to find something better, something helpful.

John turned away and stormed towards the car without another word. He tried to open the door before Greg had unlocked it, the handle leaping out of his grip awkwardly. John kicked at the front tyre and swore under his breath at himself in frustration, before Greg clicked the remote to unlock it and John tried again. This time he got in, not before throwing an angry glare at Greg and slamming the door. He sat heavily in the passenger seat, enough to make the car wobble and wrapped his arms around himself in anger, as he waited for Greg to get in. Greg moved quietly, slowly and just waited in his seat, not starting the car, not looking to John yet, just processing what John had said. He was right, and Greg felt immeasurably guilty about it. He _should_ have known better than to assume Sherlock’s guilt. He had sworn he would never do that again.

Suddenly John snapped, slamming his fists on the dash, startling Greg.

“God!” he yelled at no one in particular, before sitting back in his chair and putting his head in his hands. “Jesus Greg I’m sorry. This is such a mess! I can’t… I can’t _help_ him. I can’t help _you_. That dream messed with my… how am I supposed to help any of you?! And that footage… how are we supposed to get through this if I can’t even… he looked so… we weren’t ready to take on a case, not one like this. I _knew_ that. I told him that a hundred times! Why didn’t I go after him and stop him straight away, when he ran out? How did we end up here?” John whimpered as he put his head in his hands again, leaning forward onto his legs for support.

“Well, to be fair, we didn’t expect Sherlock to end up in the _middle_ of it,” Greg said, trying to lighten the mood, but it fell flat.

  
“This wasn’t even the case we were supposed to be investigating!” John yelled.

“Which case _was_ he looking at actually? I keep meaning to ask?” There had been quite a few cases he had sent across to Baker Street. Sherlock always did pick and choose as he pleased and by god, Greg needed the help to get through the heavy backlog.

“Missing employee with embezzled funds?” John reminded him.

“Oh right, down in Salisbury?” Greg checked. The conversation was enough to let John’s blood pressure settle a little in the meantime.

“Yes,” John replied, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Yeah, didn’t think he’d even look at that one, to be honest. Wasn’t really worth his time, was it?” Greg laughed.

“No,” John agreed with a nod.

“So why was he meeting the woman in the club then? The woman with the purple hair. I’m confused, was she the missing employee?” Greg asked.

  
“No, we’d found him already – he caught the ferry to Ireland. Ran to Dublin with the funds. He’s been taken in already and…” John said absently. “Wait, Sherlock already _solved_ this Greg. Why didn’t he tell _you_ all of this?”

“He solved it?” Greg was surprised. He hadn’t heard anything from Sherlock yet about it.

“Yes, it only took him a couple of hours,” John’s forehead creased as he thought hard.

“So how did he end up in all this then? He didn’t go down there, did he? To Wiltshire?” Greg asked.

“I have no idea… I don’t think so,” John answered. “He solved most of it without even leaving the flat, barely left the couch even. He’d spoken to employees, called the authorities in Ireland, and then he said he wanted to go out to check something else. That’s when we fought. He wasn’t making much sense after he solved the case. I thought… I _hoped_ his recovery would be faster, smoother. I thought the cases would help him – give him a purpose, you know? And they did. They really did. But he… he’s been a bit distracted lately and then he just… he stormed out after we fought – was missing for hours.”

“It’s not your fault,” Greg added gently.  
  
“How am I supposed to believe that?” John leapt in, frustrated. “We fought, and then he turned to drugs and somehow ended up in all of this shit? How am I supposed to _not_ blame myself?” his voice rose in frustration again.

Greg didn’t know what to say but the tension was broken as John’s phone rang loudly, interrupting them. John sat looking at it, letting it ring a few times while he let his temper simmer down.

“Hey Molly.” He tried to sound less angry than he felt as he answered. “Oh? Right… and… okay yes that sounds promising. Do you want us to come back in? Yeah I’m sure we can swing past on our way back to the flat. We’re close by.”

  
Greg nodded in response.

“Thanks, yeah. I’ll let him know.” He hung up the phone and sat for a moment.

“Well?” Greg finally asked impatiently.

“Possible tattoo match,” John said, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Morgue?” Greg asked.

“Yes, please,” John nodded, and Greg started the car.

___________________

“I didn’t pick up on it at first, because it was on the inside of her arm, but it looks similar don’t you think?” Molly said as she showed them. Both bodies were now laid out to make comparisons.

“Her tattoo is on her arm, see here? You would have missed it because of her position at the scene, and she has so many other tattoos, so it doesn’t really stand out. But there it is on her wrist. Our other guy has basically the same tattoo on his inner calf – over here?” Molly moved about the corpses with agility and John was impressed but also felt a buzz in his head, partly from the rage-adrenaline and partly from the out-of-body sensation he now had looking at these tattoos. It had originally been a joke, based on his dream and now here they were, comparing them as a legitimate option.

“Or at least it’s similar but with a longer piece – not sure if that’s artistic choice or deliberate?” she said, looking to Greg for an opinion. “Can’t figure out what it means yet. Could be a coincidence? Celtic patterns like this are pretty popular in the tattoo world I’m sure. It’s an attractive design.”

“Matching Celtic rings, matching Celtic tattoos, different deaths. Strange coincidence? Or strong link?” Greg asked her, really thinking aloud.

“Sherlock would tell you the universe is rarely so lazy,” John huffed. He really did miss being with him on casework. It didn’t have the same thrill without him. “So what would the link be?”

“Nothing from Mycroft yet?” Molly checked.  
  
“No,” Greg responded, coming in closer to have a look at the tattoos in more detail as well. “No way to connect these two people yet. I mean she looks very pale and he’s clearly Asian. Doesn’t mean they aren’t married or a couple, though, I guess.”

“The design doesn’t come up in the database as anything significant – nothing crime-linked at least. Just your run-of-the-mill Celtic tattoo. It seems to be a triquetra on… maybe a bell? Do you think that’s a bell shape, Greg?” she asked for his help.

“Mmmm,” he hummed as he looked up close. “I mean, it looks less like a bell on this elongated version, on his leg. But it is bell-like, sure.”

“Triquetra?” John asked, as he jotted it down to stay busy.

“Yes, it’s arguably the best-known Celtic knot. It’s usually just called the trinity knot. Interestingly, the three points are often said to represent the Holy Trinity – you know: Father, Son & Holy Spirit – but that’s never been historically verified and a lot of the Celtic symbols pre-date Christianity,” Molly said with sparkling intelligence off the top of her head. She didn’t usually get to offer out her little nuggets of knowledge when Sherlock was gracing the room. John was momentarily impressed before the annoyance crept back in.

“Right. So they could be religious nuts? Or pagans? Or lovers? Or have randomly chosen the same tattoo and have no connection at all?” he said, frustrated.

“True. I think the fact they both have the same Celtic designed rings as well, though, links them a bit more, wouldn’t you say?” she looked to Greg for support.

“Perhaps,” he said, non-committally.

“Are they a special design? The rings? Or can they be picked up from any old jeweller? I mean, he was shot point blank and she was stabbed. Surely we need something stronger? To link them?” John asked, starting to pace back and forth, the adrenaline finally too much for him. “Do you have the weapon here?”

“Pictures of it,” Molly said, as she removed her gloves and walked over to the bench to grab the photos. “It didn’t look much like a knife when it was all covered in blood, but once we cleared some of the bio-matter away, it’s actually a beautiful ornamental dagger. Small. Also Celtic design.”

“Right, and the stab wounds match? I mean, I remember they didn’t look very… clean. Are we sure that’s actually the weapon?” he argued.

Molly walked over with the photographs of the knife. “Well, it was covered in her blood and skin, so it definitely went into her body. But it’s highly ornamental,” she added, handing John the photographs.

Greg leaned over to look closer at it and noted one side of the blade had teeth or ribbing and the other side had decorative cut-outs or holes along the knife which would explain the unusual shape to the wounds. The handle was, once again, silver and with a Celtic design.

  
“It’s fancy. Ornamental. Something you would normally put on display, I imagine. Not to use as a weapon in combat,” Greg added. “The stabbing might have been difficult with the cut-out sections on the knife blade. Not what I’d grab, for a quick and dirty death, unless it was the only thing to hand.”

“Why would they give that to him? Why would they plant it on him?” John asked. “Why would _he_ feel the need to use it? Unless he was under threat?”  
  


“It was found on him?” Molly sounded disappointed. John understood that emotion – the desire to have the weapon as far away from Sherlock as possible. It was never good when they could tie the weapon directly to someone, even if it was planted.

“So it seems.” Greg replied with a serious nod.

“Is it possible the weapon was used first? That she was killed first and _then_ they planted it on him before he went back there?” John said, hopefully.

“Time of death doesn’t match up with that theory, and it looked pretty clean on the footage, sparkling in the light like that,” Greg noted. He was right. The knife sure did sparkle for a moment on the footage. Not a droplet of blood to be seen.

  
“But if these two people are connected somehow, and this guy was shot… what are we saying? Sherlock isn’t responsible for _both_ is he?” John suddenly thought aloud.  
  


“No. No of course not. Unlikely.” Greg said, but didn’t sound convincing. “What’s the time stamp on this guy?” Greg asked Molly.

“Oh he was shot a few days ago now,” Molly said with confidence. “Almost a week even. He came in well before your girl, but there was no rush on him, so it took me some time to get to it. Lucky really, that I worked both of them, and so close together,” she said absently.  
  


“God I can’t take any more of this,” John let out. “Please tell me you don’t think Sherlock did both of these Greg?”

“No, he would have been holed up in the flat with you, right? I suspect either Sherlock is not responsible at all, or this link is just an unlucky coincidence,” he answered.

“Meaning he _did_ kill her, and the link is unfortunate?” John said, unable to contain his extreme responses now. “Sorry, I just… I can’t!” he shouted as he walked out. Molly and Greg stood silently together for a moment.

“Thanks Molly. I’ll get back to you once I know more about their IDs,” he said awkwardly, handing her back the photographs and following John out.

“Great, plenty for me to work on in the meantime,” she announced as he walked out. “Gets busy in the dead centre of town,” she snorted to herself, and it echoed through the morgue to no one.


	12. Chapter 12

John stormed angrily into Baker Street, ready for a fight with whoever was closest. 

“Where’s DI Lestrade?” Mycroft asked, surprising John, who had not stopped to take in the room at all.

  
“On a call downstairs,” John said bluntly as he walked in and started pacing the lounge room, unsure of where to start, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins like a busy motorway.

“John, you remember Mary? She’s one of the nurses we hired during Sherlock’s recovery?” Mycroft said as brightly as he could, noticeably trying to compensate for the dark cloud that had entered with John.

  
He stopped pacing to look over at the woman sitting in Sherlock’s chair. He vaguely remembered her face, although there had been so many nurses in 221B this year it was hard to keep track. He took in her appearance. She was pretty; the type of woman he would have asked out on a date, before Sherlock. Her blonde messy curls framed her face beautifully and gave her an almost angelic appearance, but she exuded something darker underneath. There was definitely something alluring about her. While he had stopped, he became more aware of his surroundings. Mycroft was standing near the couch, glass of wine in hand, and Mary was in the chair, in _Sherlock’s_ chair, also sipping her wine, watching John over the rim of the glass. Something about her calmness unsettled him, particularly given the manner he had entered the room. She didn’t look startled, she didn’t try to stand and shake his hand, she just sat serenely, observing.

“Mary has some free time on her hands. She has agreed to stay on for us while Sherlock is going through… whatever _this_ is and while you’re busy out on the case,” Mycroft continued, in a tone that was very deliberately talking John off his ledge. It was far sweeter than Mycroft ever spoke normally.  
  
“Oh great, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled about that,” John snarled.

“Yes well… he slept through most of the day. I was hoping to broach that when he gets up again. I think he’s probably still recovering—”

“Coming down off the drugs you mean?” John snapped angrily.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I’m going to make a quick call – if you’ll excuse me for just a moment,” he simpered, not acknowledging John’s remark. “Mary would you be so kind as to get John a drink, perhaps have a bit of a chat, fill him in on the day’s goings-on?” he directed as he sauntered out of the room, leaving John standing there glaring at Mary sitting in the wrong chair, holding back the urge to shove her out of it.  
  
“Love to,” she said with a professional smile.

___________________

Mycroft stepped out onto the street just as Greg finished his call.

“Detective,” he said with a gentle smile, relieved to have found him, to have a moment alone together.

“Hi,” Greg responded, his voice smoother, more relaxed than Mycroft had even remembered it being, as he placed his phone back in his pocket.

“John seems to be a little… wired right now?” he suggested with a grimace.

“Yes, I would be gentle if I were you,” Greg warned, raising his eyebrows.

“Not good?” Mycroft asked, with a lightness to his voice, hoping to keep the banter flirtatious.  
  
“It’s not looking good Mycroft, no.” Greg’s voice became more serious and Mycroft’s stomach gave a tumble of sudden dread.

“Listen, before we get into that, I just wanted to… about the other day. We just need to… uh… I think…” he paused and closed his eyes for a moment before trying to go on.

Greg’s face conveyed amused confusion at seeing Mycroft lost for words.

“It’s obvious that my brother – and John – are picking up on a certain…” Mycroft waved his hand around in the air trying to conjure the right word.

“Vibe?” Greg offered suddenly.  
  
“Yes! A vibe. Thank you!” he sighed in relief. The fact that Greg had picked the very same word he had tried to use with John earlier almost made him chuckle. But he needed to get his words out and his chest was full of some sort of swarm of insects it seemed, fluttering about making it hard to suck in air at the usual rate. “Right, they’re picking up on a _vibe_ with us and well I think we should—”

“Mycroft,” Greg interrupted, putting a hand on his arm to stop him. Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat at the unexpected touch. “It’s all right. We had a lot to drink. It had been a long day and we were both overwhelmed. I’m having a rough time with my wife. I was out of line and I shouldn’t have… that is, you don’t need to—”

“Ah I see,” Mycroft replied, locking away the feeling of disappointment he knew all too well. He realised in that moment, he had fallen prey to the very thing he always steered clear of and had tried to train his brother to avoid _: hope_. “Say no more,” he said with a nod.

“Right,” Greg agreed, putting his hands in his pockets. “So we’re clear then?” he checked, looking to Mycroft for reassurance.

“Yes, crystal.”

“It’s not that I… I mean it was…” Greg began, seemingly needing to justify his position after all.

“Unexpected,” Mycroft finished, suddenly realising they had spoken at the same time and the word Greg had finished his sentence with was: _nice._ “Sorry, did you just say… nice?” he checked.

“Well yes,” Greg confirmed, suddenly blushing and looking at the ground, removing a hand from his pocket to rub the hair at the back of his head nervously. “ _Very_.” He looked up suddenly. “Wasn’t it?”

“Yes, yes it was,” Mycroft agreed, his eyes glazing over slightly as his mind went back in time and briefly relived their tryst in the less than sanitary bathroom.

They both looked at each other for a moment before letting out a laugh, and relaxing.

“Well let’s just… keep it professional from now on?” Greg suggested, despite the confession.

“Agreed, thank you,” Mycroft added. “I think that’s best.” There was a certain sense of relief for him, that Greg had confirmed it. He wasn’t one to get entangled and someone so close to his brother – particularly given the current circumstances as well – was probably not a good idea. There had been a fleeting moment of anticipation, but he was glad he was off the hook now, and that the detective had spoken up before he had embarrassed himself.

“Shall we…” Greg gestured back to the door. “John and I have information to—”

“Oh yes, absolutely. Be right up,” Mycroft replied, motioning for Greg to go first.

The detective moved in smoothly, taking the step with a little hop, his coat swinging dramatically about his legs, and giving Mycroft a moment’s pause on the pavement.

“Nicely done, Holmes. Very smooth,” he said quietly to himself, letting out a breath he suddenly realised he had been holding in.

___________________

Greg took the stairs two at a time, wanting to get as far ahead as he could before he changed his mind. _How did that just happen? Why didn’t I tell him what I really wanted to say? You’re a bloody coward Greg Lestrade,_ he yelled at himself internally.

Upon entering the flat, he noticed John was standing tensely, with a glass of scotch on the mantle beside him. Facing the fireplace, he was bracing himself on the mantle with his right hand, some of the photos from their files clasped in his left hand. The corners had been scrunched slightly where his hand was gripping and pulsing with rage. A woman Greg didn’t recognise sat in Sherlock’s chair, sipping quietly on a glass of red wine.

“Oh hello there… uh…” he gestured to the woman.

“Mary,” she answered, leaning forward to offer her hand.

“Mary,” he repeated, leaning in to shake her hand. “I’m Greg… Lestrade,” he added.

“Oh, you’re the detective!” she said keenly. 

Lestrade smiled proudly that she had heard of him already. “Detective Inspector, yeah. That’s right,” he corrected, letting his pride show a little too much.

“Lovely,” she said. “Nice to meet you. John and Sherlock talk about you all the time,” she said with a friendly smile. “I feel like I know you already.” 

Greg hadn’t realised how much he had needed a smile like that after a long couple of days. She just about lit up the whole room. It was mesmerising. “Sorry, where do you fit in?” he asked, suddenly wanting to know more about her.

“I’m the nurse. Sorry. _One_ of the nurses that has been taking care of Sherlock. We’ve never crossed paths before,” she prattled as he stared at her.

“Right,” he nodded. “Right,” he repeated, more to himself this time, as he looked her up and down. “I didn’t realise he was still getting treatment,” he commented.

“Just weekly check-ups along with his rehab, assessing his progress, deciding on the next level of treatment, any changes to his meds. That sort of thing. It’s been a long recovery process…” 

As Greg listened, he assessed her: _attractive; seems friendly enough;_ _looks like someone John would like_ , he thought to himself. _Maybe she’d be up for some rough and tumble? Make the wife jealous._

“… I don’t come all the time, I’m with the agency. But Mycroft wanted someone to help for a few days. Given he’s relapsed with the drugs, and seems to be struggling right now, he thought… well while John’s focussing on investigating with you…” she trailed off, looking towards John nervously. 

Greg shook his head and cleared his throat. _You’re gasping for any attention at all aren’t you, you moron?_ he chastised himself internally, before focussing back on the room. He was clearly getting desperate for a shag. He looked back to John, noticing how tense he still was.

“John?” he prompted.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Greg,” John snapped back, without even turning around.

“We have to tell Mycroft,” Greg said carefully.

“Shouldn’t we investigate further first? We don’t know what that was all about yet,” he implored, turning around to look at Greg, desperation and anger broadcast loudly across his features.

“You’re right. We _don’t_ know. But, we _do_ have placement of the weapon on his person, before the time of death,” Greg reminded him.

“Sorry do you need me to…?” Mary interrupted awkwardly, getting half up out of the chair.

“What?” Mycroft reacted from the doorway, shocked by the information. “What’s going on?”

“I feel like I should leave the room, maybe go and check on Sherlock?” Mary tried again to politely remove herself, all the while not really moving.

“No, it’s fine Mary. If you’re going to be around this week, you’re likely to hear a bit of arguing about the case, so if we can just ask you to…” John said, annoyed that she was there, but trying to be polite.

“Lips sealed. Patient-doctor confidentiality,” she reassured him with a tight smile. “It doesn’t really apply to nurses, but I’m happy to work with it.” 

“We’d appreciate that,” Mycroft replied, nodding without a smile.

“How about I just go into the kitchen, out of the way, and fix us all some snacks?” she offered, putting her wine down and moving out of their way.

“Thank you,” Greg replied on all of their behalves, relieved that she would be at least _partially_ out of earshot.

  
“John, what’s going on?” Mycroft demanded again. 

John sucked in air and rubbed his hand over his face. Greg decided to let John say it. He could see that John needed to get it out of his system, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to look Mycroft in the eye and tell him everything, anyway.

“We saw him on the security footage – at another club. He spoke to a drug dealer, knocked him out, then disappeared for five minutes, and came back high as a kite. Danced with someone we _think_ was unknown to him – who just about sucked him off on the dancefloor, I might add – who then hid a knife in his pocket. The same knife, allegedly, that was then stabbed into the victim _many_ times only to be pulled out of your brother’s pocket covered in blood at the crime scene,” John said in a rush of anger, without taking a breath.

Mycroft stood in silence, processing everything for a moment and Greg stood still, bracing for a tirade of terrifying proportions.

“Can we erase the tape?” he asked calmly instead.

“Mycroft!” John and Greg both shouted at him in unison.

“What?” he shot back, offended. “Perfectly reasonable question, isn’t it? I assume it’s the only footage that ties him to the murder weapon?”

“Bloody hell!” John replied in frustration. “I don’t know why we thought telling you would make this any better!” he yelled, turning back to grab his scotch and take a swig.

“John, show him the photographs,” Greg instructed.

John looked down at his hand, realising he had been holding them, gripping to them in anger since leaving Barts.

“They’re just stills – print outs from the security footage – not great quality, but they show enough. Told you it didn’t look good,” Greg explained, as John handed them across.

Mycroft cleared his throat as he looked at the less than savoury footage of his brother. “I think we need more alcohol, what do you think?” was all he could say.

“At the very least,” John scoffed, emptying his glass, ready for another, before starting to pace again.

“John, have a seat,” Greg said roughly, unable to deal with his nervous energy any longer.

“What the hell am I supposed to say to him now?” John said, ignoring the directive. “How is he supposed to explain this to us Greg?”

As if on cue, Sherlock appeared at the edge of the lounge. He was wearing pyjamas with a silk robe over the top. “I heard voices, what’s going on?” he yawned, scruffing at his curls.

John turned away, unable to make eye contact as Greg grabbed the print-outs from Mycroft’s hand, and walked them over to Sherlock, to try and cover up John’s decision to tap out momentarily.

“Sherlock, do you recognise this person?” he asked, handing the pictures over.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tight to clear them and then widened them again, trying to get his eyes to focus better. He looked at each picture slowly. His face was pale, he did not look well, and Greg could sense that he knew his answer was important so he was taking his time. John, on the other hand, had no patience at all, turning around to glare when Sherlock didn’t answer immediately.

  
“Well?” he asked angrily from across the room. Greg fired him a warning look. Sherlock was just waking up, he needed a moment to get his thoughts together, that was understandable.

  
Sherlock looked up at John, seeing the expression on his face and becoming flustered. “I… I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, I can’t see their face in this, obviously.” He then looked to Greg, uncertain, his brow furrowed, deep in thought.

John licked his lips, before letting out a loud, impatient, frustrated breath. “Really?” he said angrily. “This person just about gave you a hand job on the dance floor in front of god and country and… you don’t remember them?!”

“What?” Sherlock asked, looking at him, confused, then to his brother and to Greg, finding everyone watching him expectantly. He didn’t have the answer they wanted, that much was clear. He really had no memory of it at all. “Obviously that’s me. But I don’t… I’m sorry,” he said weakly, handing back the pictures.  
  
“Nope. I just can’t,” John said to Greg, turning away, again.

“I… don’t remember this person. This club even,” Sherlock said to Greg.

“Probably because you were high Sherlock!” John turned around again to yell at him. 

“Well that’s not news, John. I think we all know I was high,” Sherlock said flippantly.

“You went… to that _shitting club_ ,” John swore with bile, walking slowly closer, his voice lower and more fierce, between gritted teeth now. “A club you’ve had ready access to, that you would have _known_ about. She sent you to _that_ club and you went there. You must have known about that club. _I knew_ about that club. And god knows what you took there, but you were having a right old time… while I was running around bloody London, looking for you…” John swallowed hard, before he said his next thought. “… thinking you were dead in a gutter somewhere.” 

He stopped to look for a reaction from Sherlock, for any sign that he was remorseful, and when it didn’t come, when Sherlock just stood helplessly watching John unravel, it tipped him over the edge. “But no! You were dancing! Dancing and making out with a complete stranger. Someone who has either framed you for a murder, or given you the weapon and the means to be responsible… for this… this…”

“John, that’s enough,” Greg said, putting a hand on his arm.

“I don’t know this person,” Sherlock said simply, pointing at the photo in Greg’s other hand.

“That’s not even the point, Sherlock! It doesn’t make it any better that you don’t know them!” John shouted, in frustration.

“And what would you like me to say that would make it better?” Sherlock fired back, with recklessness, knowing that he was pushing John’s buttons.  
  
“There’s not a hell of a lot you _can_ say at this point is there?! But don’t mind us. So long as you had a good time!” John yelled back.

“John!” Mycroft barked finally. His voice echoed across the room, stopping the argument in its tracks.

Sherlock looked at John for a long time, not speaking. The tension between them was unbearable as a bystander. They had plenty of practice at hurting one another and Greg felt painfully uncomfortable standing in the middle watching it unfold. Finally, Sherlock broke the stand-off by turning around, without a word, and walking back to his room, slamming the door behind him.

“Really John? How is that helping?” Mycroft said finally.

“Oh god,” John sighed, putting his head into his hand. “Shit. It’s not helping, I _know_ it’s not helping. I’m sorry,” he said.

“I think you need to take a walk. Take a walk and cool off,” Greg suggested. “Come back here when you’ve calmed down.” 

John looked over at Mycroft, with a face full of guilt and apology. He was not handling the stress well at all. The last thing Sherlock needed right now, was for the one person who was supposed to love and support him no matter what, to be crumbling, to be angry. 

“Leave Sherlock to me. It’s been a big couple of days for you both,” Mycroft said, much gentler than John expected after his behaviour.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” John agreed. 

He walked to the table, grabbed his keys and walked out of the flat.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock had stayed locked up in his room for a good hour or more, unable to face everyone. The look on John’s face had been enough to make him want to shrink into himself and disappear. He knew, deep down _he knew_ he had made a very large error in judgement that night. For starters, he had chosen not to listen to John. He had finally hit his limit when it came down to being cooped up in the flat. The trade-off had been spending more time with John, locked away from the world and just being together. But John was so protective and had been treating Sherlock like something fragile that would shatter. They had enjoyed taking things slow in the beginning, testing the shifting of their new boundaries. But Sherlock had started to resent his injuries, his recovery, John’s behaviour.

The final straw had come when Mycroft had messaged him, with the possibility of a case. They had been working some of Greg’s mundane cases and normally, Sherlock would say no to his brother, just to be irksome. But this time, Mycroft had sent him a very mysterious message he couldn’t refuse. If John hadn’t been so pig-headed about him staying inside, about not going out on a case, then maybe he wouldn’t have… well it was too late for that sort of thinking now wasn’t it? He had, in fact, chosen to go, he had been enticed to get high. But he knew that he had not been feeling well before that. He remembered clearly that the last week or two – with the change of meds – things had been… foggy. He didn’t want to tell John, lest there be more fuss, more time inside, so he had been monitoring things himself. He knew what he needed when his mind was sluggish: to get out; stretch his legs; breathe London in; solve a case; follow a lead of his brother’s making. Anything to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind, for therein would lie a far greater tragedy. Drugs did also help, admittedly that was part of the temptation. That, and his mulish inability to adjust to their relationship. It was strange that Mycroft hadn’t asked anything about the connection though, given he was the one that enticed him out.

Sherlock wanted to stay locked away in his room and not have to see John looking at him with disappointment again, more than anything, but the call of nature required him to move to the bathroom and his stomach was growling a little. His post-high appetite had started. _Tiresome._ He could hear friendly banter and laughter coming from the lounge; it rubbed Sherlock the wrong way to know that after the tension earlier, they were enjoying themselves, without him. After he had relieved himself, he shuffled quietly down the corridor and observed them, unnoticed from the shadows, the noise and focus of their inebriated conversation making them oblivious to his presence.

All of them were comfortably sitting together, a platter of food on the coffee table catching his eye and his stomach gave a loud gurgle in response to the opportunity. He gave an angry glance down as if that would silence his body’s involuntary response. The group of them had obviously been drinking wine and were laughing as they shared stories. Even John was giving them a version of himself Sherlock hadn’t seen for a good week or more. Without Sherlock in the room to bother him, he looked relaxed, happy almost. Mycroft finished telling them an embarrassing tale from their youth, which made Sherlock want to roll his eyes but the soft smile on John’s face made him pause. John took over then, sharing together in the combined telling of funny things Sherlock had said under the influence of the medication during his recovery, with a woman Sherlock didn’t recognise. She had evidently been at the flat, as she had a few tales to tell, much to the delight of the others. She was sitting on the arm of John’s chair, and as she leaned over to fill his glass with more wine, the pair of them laughed with each other, tears of joy in their eyes. Sherlock’s stomach lurched at the sight of John looking so happy. He was fairly certain he’d never seen John look at him with quite that much sparkle. Sherlock would never allow an emotion as pedestrian as jealousy to take over, but in that moment he felt… lesser. John had always seemed to prefer women and seeing him there with that woman made him suddenly doubt whether this life at Baker Street was really what John wanted. Had the relief of Sherlock returning and being alive, the need to nurse Sherlock back to health, forced John into something he would not have otherwise chosen?

Greg’s phone interrupted them loudly, with a call, and he left the room with mumbled apologies to take it out on the stairs. For a moment, the conversation stopped and Sherlock decided to make his presence known. The food was starting to call to him again.

“Who’s this?” he asked, looking Mary up and down, not even hiding the possessiveness that was crawling through his bloodstream. He avoided looking at John. He couldn’t face what might be in his eyes when he did.

“Oh Sherlock, you’re awake,” she said fondly, with a genuine smile that didn’t improve his reaction to her. She turned towards him more, and Sherlock allowed his eyes to flick past her to John, who was not looking at him; his eyes were firmly planted in his wineglass.

“And _you_ are?” Sherlock asked her again, boldly. He didn’t like the way she seemed to be so familiar, so comfortable with John, and with him – with everyone in the room apparently.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft urged, as he took a sip of wine, shaking his head. The tone was clear: he should _know_ who she was. His little brother was a mess and he was embarrassed.

“I was the one who checked up on you a couple of weeks ago, Sherlock. _Mary_ , remember?” she asked kindly, but Sherlock felt more like he was being addressed as an elderly patient with dementia.

“I don’t… remember,” he said vaguely, his brow furrowing in thought and confusion. He could sense John’s posture change in the corner of his eye. John was uncomfortable or concerned by his answer.

“Oh goodness Sherlock! I’m offended you don’t even remember me,” she said with a laugh, looking to the others, trying to include them in lightening the mood again. “I’ve been here a few times in fact!”

“I guess you’re just not very memorable,” Sherlock said, bluntly.

“Sherlock!” John finally intervened, standing up. The movement made the lady also get off the arm of the chair and step to the side. Sherlock got a small thrill seeing them separate but John didn’t look at him, he just addressed _her_ directly: “Sorry, he’s not himself at the moment. Although, I say that, but then again, he is a grumpy bastard a lot of the time! I’m sure you already know.” He rolled his eyes and they shared a knowing smile. In that moment, Sherlock wanted to wrap his fingers around her delicate neck and squeeze. How dare she share a knowing look with _his_ John.

Mary laughed gently and touched John’s arm in what looked like sympathy. _Yes, poor John having to deal with the likes of me._

“Excuse me, I seem to have lost my appetite,” Sherlock said, before walking out of the room and returning to his hiding place. He slumped down onto his bed, wrapping his dressing gown around him for comfort, hugging it to his body.

His door opened roughly, not long after, and then was closed softly as the scent of John wafted across the bed to him. He loved that smell. John had an aftershave lotion that Sherlock loved, and he always smelled of starch from ironing his clothes so meticulously, added to the unmistakeable smell of the wine – Merlot. A ’98 vintage by the aroma. Mycroft must have picked it out. It took all of his willpower to stay put and not turn and ask John to snuggle up to him on the bed. They could still fix this. Things were always better when John was close by.

“I’m not stupid enough to think you’re going to apologise for any of the things you’ve been saying the last couple of days: when we fought the other night; what you said in your cell to me; or all the things you’ve said tonight. I know you don’t mean it, not really. I’m used to it after all this time. But Mary doesn’t deserve that,” John said, reprimanding him.

“I _did_ mean it,” Sherlock replied stubbornly.

“Oh you did? So you want me to pack up and go then?” John said, knowing exactly which button to push.

Sherlock clasped his mouth shut, mentally tracing back over their last few arguments. Had he said that? Had he told John to leave? John let out a heavy sigh and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Sherlock, I’m worried about you. You know I… I’m terrified for you. And you’re shutting me out of whatever is going on in that brilliant head of yours. I want you to let me _in_ ,” he admitted quietly.

“You seemed perfectly happy out _there_ , without me,” he moaned, not enjoying how pathetic he sounded, but unable to resist the sulk.

“And _you_ seemed quite happy in that nightclub footage, being fondled on the dancefloor. So should I be worried?” he pressed.

Sherlock turned over in the bed, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I don’t know John. I don’t know what I was doing! Don’t you understand? When I’m on the drugs, I don’t _know_ what I’m doing.”

“You’re not a first-time user Sherlock!” John argued, standing back up off the bed, his voice rising in anger again already. “Don’t pretend you haven’t got some control. I don’t believe that for a second!”

“I can’t explain it,” was all he could think to say in response.

“And that woman in the bar, at the hotel? Before you were high? What was _that_ about?”

John wanted answers, and Sherlock could understand that. He had spent hours poring over his mind palace, mentally flipping over chairs and tables to find the fragments of what had actually led him to be in this situation. He didn’t like not knowing how all the pieces fit together either. It was unsettling, to say the least.

“You’re better off without me,” Sherlock settled on, without thinking. “I really don’t understand what I was thinking, why I was there, why I behaved the way I did. I think it’s best if you—”

“What?” John was very still all of a sudden. “If I _what,_ Sherlock? Finish that sentence. I dare you,” he threatened. “If you want me to go, I _will_ go. But you have to _say_ it. And mean it.”

He was angry. John had reached his limit. Sherlock had seen it before, during his recovery, after the Extraction. John had snapped then too. Sherlock had sworn to himself he would never put John in that position again and it had only taken him a few months to wreck it. He slumped back onto his pillow, his hands on his face in frustration.

“You _know_ I don’t want that,” he finally admitted.

  
“Fine, then let’s stop talking about it,” John said, sitting back on the bed in resignation. They sat in silence together. Sherlock could hear John’s breathing, sense the heat coming off him in waves of frustration, but he was using all of his willpower, it seemed, not to snap again.

“This person, the one that was all over you at the club… do you really not know them? Is that… usual for you to let people just—”

“No, John _. No_. I don’t…” Sherlock thought through his words very carefully. “Honestly? I don’t remember even going to the club. I don’t remember what I took. I remember leaving the flat, after we argued. I remember heading to a bar, and I remember I was—”

“What?” John was impatient for answers.

“I was upset. I was annoyed at you and I was doing my brother a favour—”

“Wait, Mycroft knew?” John leapt on that information.

“ _I was doing him a favour_ …” Sherlock pushed on, not allowing John time to focus on that point. “… which also meant I could leave the flat, just for a moment – an hour at most. I wanted to give you some space. I know I’ve been… difficult,” Sherlock admitted.

“Sherlock, that’s not—”

“No, it’s fine. I _know_ I am,” he agreed with a sigh. “I am happy to lock myself in the flat for days on end when I’m focussed on a task, a case, an experiment, or you…” he blushed as the words came out before he could stop them. “But I don’t like it when I actually _can’t_ leave or _shouldn’t_ leave and it’s on someone else’s terms.”

  
“Yeah, don’t worry. I definitely got that message loud and clear. Perhaps going out and inserting yourself into a crime scene was a little extreme though?” John joked sarcastically, and the mock-serious look he gave Sherlock, made him relax. The two of them giggled for a very brief moment and Sherlock felt a release of tension, that things might be okay between them. John already knew how exasperating life with him could be.

“They put that knife in your pocket… at the club. The dead woman gave you a match box with the club’s name on it, and you went there for someone to give you the knife. Do you remember any of that? Any of why you met her? Why she sent you? Why they would want you to have it?” John asked, much more gently, almost desperately.

Sherlock sat up properly to look at John, to watch the concern etched on his face, to process the information, for how heavily trapped in this situation he was becoming. He didn’t want this for them, not for John at least.

“Oh John. _John_ ,” he moaned. “I did this, didn’t I?” And he buried his face in his hands. It was what he had been worried about since he woke up in that hotel room: that he might genuinely be responsible. For years the likes of Donovan had teased that he was capable, but deep down he never thought he would actually cross that line. Until now. Had he done this?

“I don’t know Sherlock. I honestly don’t know,” John said, reaching over and placing a hand on Sherlock’s thigh in support. He looked so tired. “It’s all sort of circumstantial at the moment. I’m more worried that you can’t remember enough to help yourself, if I’m honest.”

“I’ve done this to _us_. I’ve ruined everything,” he began to unravel, his blood pressure rising with every thought, his voice cracking as he panicked. “We were okay, things were _okay,_ and I have gone and ruined it, like I ruin everything. I can’t think my way out of this. It’s all my fault.”

“Oh Sherlock, you don’t ruin everything,” John said, moving onto the bed to be closer, crossing his legs and putting his hand back on Sherlock’s leg. “You’re the best thing to ever happen to me,” John said simply, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to admit, and that only made Sherlock more upset.

“Sure, until I left you, until I jumped and left you and—”

“Sherlock, none of that matters now,” John stopped him before he could get carried away. “You’re here now, we’re together and—”

“For how _long_ , John? Until the police pull all of it together?” Sherlock argued. “At some point Greg’s going to have to report all of his findings.”

“We’re looking into it thoroughly before we report anything. Mycroft is even helping.” John’s voice sounded sturdy, confident. It gave Sherlock a small moment of relief. Maybe it wasn’t over just yet.

“So that nurse?”  
  


“Mary?”

“She seems… lovely. At least you have a back-up sorted, if I go to prison. So you won’t be alone,” he sulked.

“Sherlock! Stop it! She is the nurse that will be here looking after you while I am out with Greg on the case, trying to _save_ you. She was actually here taking care of you after the extraction. On and off. She’s been here a few times. She comes highly recommended, so I’m told.”

“Well you certainly seem to rate her highly,” he scoffed.

  
“Sherlock, _enough_! I’m not interested in her like that. I don’t want anyone else. How many times—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just feeling… insecure,” he confessed suddenly.

“Yes I think we all know that about you.”

“Really?”

“Yes of course! You’re not that much of a genius when it comes to emotional things Sherlock,” John teased.

  
“Oh great. Well, I’m only insecure that… I don’t know John,” he began, suddenly not able to look John in the eye. “As long as I’ve known you, you seem to have been with a lot of women. You seem to have a preference for—”

“Sherlock, firstly, you haven’t known me _that_ long. Believe me, I have history.”

Sherlock looked up at him, eyebrows raised, and John smiled back. It was rare to be surprised with anything. John did seem to be one of the very few people that could manage to. 

“But I think everyone who’s been around us these last couple of years is well aware that women are _not_ my preference at all,” he continued. 

“What?” Sherlock wasn’t sure he understood.

“You really _are_ oblivious aren’t you?” John teased. “Everyone has been assuming we were a couple since the day we met – your brother included! I’ve clearly favoured _you_ the entire time, even without realising it. I don’t know how you could even question it,” he laughed.

“I question it, because… well, no one’s ever favoured me before,” Sherlock said simply. The truth hurt a little bit.

“I find that hard to believe,” John scoffed.

“It’s true, John! People think I’m weird. You’re the only person who doesn’t think I’m weird.” Sherlock didn’t know how else to put it, but it was a constant source of frustration for him. He had always wanted to connect with people, when he was younger, and no one ever understood him. His brother had taught him to shut that desire away, so he didn’t get so hurt by it.

“Well, I just see it as the universe giving me what I asked for,” John said, grabbing Sherlock’s hand and squeezing it in his.

  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock looked at him, confused. “Someone who’s weird?”  
  
“Yes. _Yes,_ if you must know. Someone who’s weird… and dangerous and exciting…” John nodded with a smile “… and gorgeous.”

Sherlock blushed.

John pulled Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kissed his fingers gently in reassurance and Sherlock couldn’t help closing his eyes, enjoying it just for a moment, pretending that none of the other mess had happened.

“Now enough of that. How are you feeling?” John checked.

“Better now that you’re here,” Sherlock smiled for the first time in days. He leaned closer and John leaned to meet him, and they shared a gentle kiss. Nothing crazy and passionate, just a simple “sorry” articulated through their lips meeting and reassuring one another. It was modest and perfect and exactly what Sherlock needed to feel comforted.

“John?” The voice surprised them from the doorway and they broke apart, to see Lestrade’s head poking around the edge.

“Really Gavin?” Sherlock asked.

“ _Greg,_ ” John whispered against his ear, with a smile, making Sherlock shiver.

Lestrade didn’t wait for Sherlock to correct it. “There’s another body. It’s in Yorkshire. We’ll need to get up there now and investigate.”

“Another link?” John asked, sitting bolt upright and letting go of Sherlock.  
  
“Seems so, yes,” Greg replied.

“Well that’s good, right? That could help.” John was already scooting himself across to the edge of the bed to get off and leave. Greg nodded, his face serious.

The absence of John already made the colour drain from Sherlock’s face in disappointment and worry. “You’re leaving already? Can I at least come?”

“Sherlock. We’ve talked about this. Besides, you’re in no state right now. You need to leave this to Greg this time. We’re doing our best. And you need to trust us. This could be an important break in the case. If there’s any connection, this could clear you, once and for all. If someone else is out there doing this…” his voice trailed off as he looked at Sherlock, who couldn’t stop himself pouting like a sulky child.

“You know I love you,” John said, walking back around the bed to be closer to Sherlock again. “And right now, you need to step aside and let us do the investigating.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, not removing the grumpy expression from his face.

“Sorry” Greg said, to both of them.

“It’s fine,” John said, giving Greg reassurance, and glancing at Sherlock to agree. “Sherlock?” he pressed.

“Yes, okay. Not that I have any say,” he sneered.

“Sherlock, it’s fine. You need to lie down and rest…” John said, placing a hand on the back of his curls and looking him straight on. Sherlock had missed seeing his eyes up close like that. His beautifully blue eyes, full of care and worry, and he suddenly felt guilty, for ever wanting to leave them. “… and listen to your brother. _And_ be nice to Mary,” John directed sternly.

“Pffft _fine_ ,” Sherlock answered stubbornly in return, flopping down on his back and crossing his arms.

“Thank you,” John said, leaning in and kissing him on the nose sweetly, before following Greg out of the room.

Sherlock closed his eyes tight and scrunched his nose up in annoyance as a tear left the corner of his eye and trickled down his cheekbone and into his ear.


	14. Chapter 14

John woke with a start. His dreams were filled with confusing twists and turns: arguing with Mycroft, after Sherlock found him in bed with Mary, Sherlock then pulling out a gun to shoot her. John jolted awake, to find his face had been plastered against the passenger side window, his forehead ached from the point his body weight had rested against the cold glass.

“You okay?” Greg asked from the driver’s seat. He kept his eyes focussed on the road.

John groaned, and rubbed his hand across his face, then scrubbed at his hair. “Wow, sorry. Must have dozed off.”

“No problem, I enjoy driving. It was good to get my head together actually, while you slept. We’re nearly there.”

“Great,” John said, feeling a bit apprehensive, and trying to get his own head around what was happening. He had thrown a change of clothes and some toiletries into a backpack at the flat and left in such a hurry he had barely had time to process everything. Luckily Greg hadn’t been drinking as much as the rest of them and had taken the lead. A three hour or so drive through the night had been required, but it had given them a chance to talk over some of the information again, and the little bit Greg had been told about this latest development on the phone. Eventually, conversation had died down and the fatigue of the last couple of days had caught up with John, apparently. Watching the headlights bob on the road in front had lulled him off to sleep.

He checked his phone and was surprised there were no messages. “Hmmm Sherlock has been quiet. Not like him,” John said, trying to hide the concern in his voice.

“Maybe he’s sleeping? I mean, he could clearly use it. He doesn’t look great at the moment, John, and it’s late,” Greg tried to reassure him.

“No, you’re right about that,” John said. It had been bothering him all week, with the added effects of the drugs, Sherlock had really started to look pale. John checked the clock display on the car dash – nearly ten-thirty – not late by Sherlock’s standards.

“So we’ll go to the crime scene first, have a look around. Someone from the Yard spotted the call-out information and flagged it with me. I actually have an old buddy from my early days in the force who moved up here to work the beat. I’ve given him the heads up that we’re coming, and he’ll meet us at the scene, talk us through everything. Then I’ll take us over to the hotel to freshen up, perhaps find some proper dinner if anything is still open this late.”

“Sounds great,” John said, looking out the window and taking in the scenery. They had come off the motorway and even in the dark, John only saw fields and farms for miles, as the road weaved closer to the coast. He thought for a moment what it might be like to move out to the country, away from the bustle of the city, away from so much death and crime. Of course, that was irrational given Sherlock loved London so much. Add to that the fact that they were here now _specifically_ to deal with death and crime anyway. He told his mind to keep quiet.

“Interesting dreams?” Greg asked absently, thankfully interrupting his thoughts.

“No, just… well yes actually. This whole thing has messed with my head,” he confessed. “I’m definitely having strange dreams.”

“Sherlock stabbing you again?” Greg asked.  
  


“How did you—”  
  


“Mycroft might have mentioned something,” he admitted with a smirk.

John was embarrassed. “Well yes, that was... anyway, tonight it seems I’m sleeping with Mary and Sherlock is shooting _her_.”

They both glanced at each other and then broke into laughter.

“God, I need a drink. Can we make time for that?” John said with a shaky breath.

“I’m with you on that,” Greg said. “What a week,” he added, letting the conversation die for a moment, both of them just watching the road snake in front of them. Eventually the car slowed as the speed limit changed and they settled towards the town, the view shifting to more urban housing, some little shops, most of them closed and dark now. The lights on the edge of the roadway finally showed the coastline. They had reached Whitby and something about seeing the edge of the continent and the outstretched ocean beside them relaxed John’s heartrate a little. If only this trip to the seaside was under better circumstances. He would have loved to be making a trip with Sherlock to a place like this. Not travelling with Greg in the hope they would find a reason to get Sherlock off the hook for murder. It was high tide and the sea lapped at the edge of the cliff faces, the rough waves an appropriate visual display of the turmoil John was feeling inside.

“We need to find something, Greg,” John said finally, with gravity.

“I know. _I know_ ,” he agreed.

___________________

The visit to the crime scene had been more harrowing than John expected. He was a doctor, after all. He had worked alongside Sherlock, fought in a war; dead bodies were hardly shocking to him. But somehow, John was struggling with this case. Now that Sherlock was in the thick of it, it was an entirely different experience being placed on the other side, hoping your loved one wasn’t involved. Even though Sherlock had been nowhere near this particular scene, could not have been responsible for a death this far North in the last few days, John struggled. The desperation to find something that linked all of these people together, to push Sherlock out of the spotlight, was pulsating through to every nerve ending in John’s body.

The sight of the victim – this time an older man – gave him pause. He was in his late forties, very buff, Mediterranean skin and hanging from a door by a large rusted hook of some kind. The man’s throat had been slit from ear to ear. A clean cut with a sharp blade, there was no doubt. Blood had covered his clothes, the door, _and_ soaked a large portion of the wooden barn floor, now mixed into straw and congealing. He also had many tattoos, so they would need to look into that closer, to check the link. But he was wearing a ring, like the others. The ring had been flagged in the system and Greg had been called.

It was the first time John had turned away from a dead body, fighting the urge to lose his stomach contents. He blamed the wine, or perhaps it was delayed car sickness after the long drive, although he knew it was neither of those things at all. It was fear and worry, and protectiveness, churning him up like some kind of morbid food processor. His credibility, with Greg and the other officers on site, all rested now on how well he could hold his nerve. 

The victim was apparently a friendly local farmer. The neighbour John spoke to was surprised – horrified even – that the lovely, affable giant next door would be murdered by anyone. It seemed that he had established himself in the town, after moving here ten or so years ago. There was plenty of blood at the scene to leave no doubt about the fact he had bled to death. How someone that strong could have been sliced so easily without a fight, was definitely suspicious. Looking at this scene John was certain Sherlock was not involved in this part, at least. He knew Sherlock could never be capable of this. Even if he had the resourcefulness to manage to sneak in a seven hour round trip and a murder without anyone realising.

John left the scene to look around the farmhouse, and other parts of the barn, to avoid an embarrassing possible regurgitation incident, destroying any evidence. He left Greg to talk with his mate and ask questions. While he made some notes, he didn’t find anything of particular interest that would explain why this man was targeted and how he fit into their case at all – aside from the ring – and at this stage it seemed unlikely to be linked, as far as John could see.

Greg drove them quietly down the road to The Wheeldale, where they would be staying. They had both agreed it would be best to take a break and look at the body properly in the morning – after the local forensic team had done their work. The hotel sat on a hill overlooking the cliffs to the beach and was small and clean. John’s room had a lovely view out to the water, which he would appreciate in the morning, he was sure. It had been a long time since he had been near water. The owners were generous enough to cook them breakfast – their specialty – as a late-night meal, when they heard why the pair were there. Apparently the victim was well-liked and known all over town. It was too late for the local restaurants to still be open anyway.

They were left in peace to eat and think, discussions roaming over the case details once again, trying to piece together how a young prostitute, an Asian man – older than her – and now this man, clearly a mid-forties sea-change farmer all had anything in common except a penchant for Celtic jewellery and an early demise.

“No doubt Sherlock would have solved it by now,” John said under his breath in frustration.

“Well he’s not here and he can’t help… and he’s not the only man in England to ever solve a crime,” Greg reacted, a little jealously. “I _did_ manage to make some arrests while he was—” Greg trailed off when he realised the insensitivity of what he was saying.

“It’s okay Greg. And of course you did. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you aren’t any good at your job. And as much as Sherlock teases you, he doesn’t think that either. He wouldn’t bother to work with you if he thought you were actually an idiot. At least, that’s what I keep trying to convince myself, really: that I’m not a boring imbecile he only tolerates.”

“Hey mate. He doesn’t think that about you. And thanks,” Greg said back, shovelling a forkful of sausage and scrambled eggs in his mouth.

“Yeah well, I’d just be happier if we could find something that—” his thought was interrupted by an incoming text on Greg’s phone beside them on the table.

Greg put down his cutlery and grabbed it, opening the message. His eyes flicked to John’s in response. “Guess what?” he asked.

“Tattoo?” John asked.

Greg turned his phone around and sure enough, the photo of the dead man’s arm had been texted to Greg. Clear as day on his heavily-muscled bicep, after his shirt had been removed, was the same tattoo. It matched the purple-haired girl’s tattoo exactly in size and shape. There was no doubt, they were connected.

Greg and John stood simultaneously in a rush, ready to go to the morgue. “Bingo,” Greg said.

___________________

It was well after one in the morning when Greg and John trudged back through the door. Greg had a thick case file to read, and more photographs from the morgue to add to his own growing file. They still had no information on the identities of all of their other victims, aside from this fellow – James Andino: local farmer, single, quiet, maybe a little reclusive. Not much to go on.

“Let’s get a few hours’ sleep and we can do some more leg-work in the morning? Maybe go back to the morgue and see if anything else has come up?” John suggested.

“You go on up, I might grab my laptop out of the car and just do a couple of things before I head to bed,” Greg said with a nod.

“Will do,” John said, walking up the stairs to his door.

He pushed it open and leaned against it, as he closed the door behind him, for just a moment, letting out a heavy breath. He never could get used to these endless nights when they were case-running. Even as a doctor it was not his best skill – staying up all night. He needed sleep. Desperately. His legs and his back were aching. He flicked his hand up to turn on the light to his room.

“Jesus, Sherlock! How did you…?” John exploded in fright as the light revealed the extra occupant in the room. Sure enough, sitting cross-legged on the bed, was his consulting _bloody_ detective.

“Tracked your phone,” Sherlock said with an apologetic smile.

“You can’t be here!” John yelled.

“Bit late for that,” Sherlock replied calmly.

“How will it look that you are _here_ , where there’s a crime scene, in a case that you are potentially linked to?!” John was beside himself.

“Relax John,” Sherlock said steadily, climbing off the bed to come over to him.  
  
“How can I relax? Aside from the very obvious risk to your case, there’s also your health. What were you thinking?!” John said, moving away from Sherlock, his hands raised, as if by touching him he would somehow be complicit in this behaviour.

“Things have been strained lately,” Sherlock responded.

“Have they?”

“Haven’t they?” he asked, reaching out to touch John’s arm.

“Jesus! It’s not a romantic getaway, Sherlock. We’re here to investigate a murder!” he yelled, stepping away to the middle of the room to pace the floor. “You understand I’m not here because we had an argument, some kind of relationship drama? You were arrested on possible murder charges!”

“Which I’m innocent of,” Sherlock said, sounding offended.

“Sherlock, of course you are. I have no doubt that you will be cleared.” John tilted his head, trying to fathom what was going through his detective’s genius brain. “You _couldn’t_ have done it. The Sherlock I know, is kind and loving. But—”

“You just don’t see the worst bits of me, John.”

“That’s not helping,” John admonished. “And I’ve seen plenty of bad bits, don’t you worry. But I know that underneath that exterior you show to the world, at your _core_ , you are good. Sometimes you behave badly but you are good at your core, Sherlock. I _know_ that. But coming here in the middle of the night… are you trying to _look_ guilty?!”

“If I am guilty, if they _find_ me guilty. What will that say about me? What will that say about _you_? What will you think of me, then?” he asked, and his face dropped. John could see he was tired, that he hadn’t rested, that whatever was happening to him at the moment was taking a heavy toll.

“Sherlock, you’re overthinking this. You’re not guilty. Let’s just take one step at a time. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. How did you even get here?” he asked, worried.

Sherlock didn’t answer, he just walked to the window and looked out at the ocean through the darkness.

“Sherlock, you still need to recover. You haven’t been yourself – even these last few weeks. Ever since the physical therapy sessions have slowed, and the new meds… I feel like the change of routine has been harder, somehow, on us.”

Sherlock still didn’t respond.

“Sherlock?” John asked, trying to get his attention. “Come here,” he offered.

“John, I’m fine,” he sighed, annoyed.

“Yeah, well, _I’m_ not fine. I want you to come here,” he finally said, holding out his arms.

Sherlock paused and watched John for a moment, before coming over to him and wrapping his arms around John.

“I’m disappointing you,” Sherlock said sadly into John’s hair.

“No, you… look, I knew what I was getting into… when I told you how I felt. When we became… I _know_ who you are. I’ve always known who you are. I’m not asking you to _change_ who you are. Right? And it doesn’t change how I feel about you. Okay? But the reality is, you’re in trouble at the moment… and I’m worried about you… and we’re in this together. You don’t get to just shut me out. And you don’t get to run off to strange locations when you’re supposed to be at home in bed, you git!” he said, giving Sherlock a playful slap on his backside. “What will Mary say? Mycroft? Oh my god! I should ring Mycroft.”

“Leave it for now. You can do that later,” Sherlock said gently, squeezing John a little tighter, sighing with contentedness.

“This is nice,” John agreed. “I’ve missed this.”

“You keep treating me like I’m going to break, John. Like I’m broken,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“You _were_ broken, Sherlock.”

“I’m still me, though. I still… love you. I still want you… all the time. I still want us to…”

John pushed away from Sherlock to look at him. It wasn’t like him to even want to talk about this sort of thing and it caught John by surprise. “Sherlock, I’m just trying to…” he didn’t even know how to begin to tackle this properly with Sherlock. “Being in a relationship isn’t new to me, Sherlock. But being in one with my best friend, with someone I love this much, not wanting to wreck it? That’s new for me. Wanting to make sure you’re healthy – mentally and physically – first… that’s important to me.”

“John, I just want you near me all the time. I don’t want you to ever go away, and even when you’re right next to me, I feel like you’re not close enough. Sometimes I feel like I want… like I _need_ … more,” he admitted quietly.

“And we will. Sherlock, we _will_. There’s plenty of time for that. Heal first. With all of this going on, that’s the last thing we should be thinking about,” John said gently, making sure to look Sherlock straight in the eyes as he reassured him.

Sherlock watched him for a moment, really watched him. “You don’t want me.” He said it as a clear statement, not a question.

“God, Sherlock, _believe me_ , that is definitely _not_ it! I’ve wanked more in the shower since we got together, than I think I did as a bloody teenager. God help me, the fact that I get to touch you at all, to kiss you… it drives me crazy! Wanting you is _not_ a problem.”

“Well then, what are you waiting for?” he asked.

John stood looking at Sherlock, his pulse rising, the heat building from his chest, travelling up his throat and across the back of his skull in prickling excitement. Sherlock was right here in front of him. He looked stunning – the slightly wild hair and eyes actually further accentuated by his extra-pale skin at the moment. Even though the doctor in John could see Sherlock was not himself, and was not at his best, _by god_ he couldn’t help the rush of excitement he felt looking at him standing there, _begging_ John to take him. And Sherlock being stubborn always made John more determined to win whatever argument they had. This moment was no exception. It was no hardship either.

All John had to do was walk the few steps over to him and grab him; it was that simple. He wanted to do the right thing, to maintain distance – particularly while all of these complications were going on. The fatigue, however, was enough to push John over the edge and he took two very large, bold steps forward and grasped Sherlock’s shoulders roughly in either hand pulling him closer, so their bodies were touching, the heat between them only lighting the fire in him further. Sherlock was so strung out that his body was shivering, just slightly, with anticipation. They glared at each other, smouldering, neither one making the next move. John noticed a sparkle of victory in Sherlock’s eyes, but he didn’t care. He grabbed the back of Sherlock’s curls and pulled his head down to meet their lips together roughly, passionately, unable to wait any longer. Sherlock leaned into it, bending his spine more to come down to John’s level, his hands grabbing John’s coat on his back and pulling him in even closer, for more traction. John moaned in delight. _God he had missed this_. They hadn’t shared a kiss like this in… _weeks._ A proper, passionate, “can’t get enough of you”, kiss. No wonder Sherlock was feeling neglected. The blood was rushing in his ears so much in the moment, in all the excitement, that he was completely unaware of the door to his room opening.

“What the hell is going on here?” Greg boomed, in shock, from the doorway.


	15. Chapter 15

John woke slowly, taking in the strange surroundings. The room was dark, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. _Whitby, the Wheel… something,_ John thought to himself, slowly letting his mind file back over everything.

After settling Greg down, they agreed that John would head back with Sherlock in the morning, after they had all had some sleep first. Greg would finish the rest of the inquiries alone and bring anything back with him to Baker Street, to fill John in then. He had not been happy either, to see Sherlock – who they were trying so very hard to protect – wilfully ignoring their instructions. It took a good twenty minutes for Greg’s blood pressure to settle and for him to head to his own room.

_Sherlock!_ John suddenly remembered, looking beside him in his bed. They had managed to resolve their differences on the relationship front – quite successfully – after Greg left, and Sherlock had been snuggled against him warmly as he had fallen asleep. Everything had seemed perfect. Now he realised his bed was empty and the cool air against his chest was probably what had stirred him awake. The early morning temperature had dropped significantly.

He sat up in bed, looking around the room.

“Sherlock?” he asked quietly. No answer.

He got up and threw on his pyjamas and his coat over it, realising it was far too cold not to be dressed properly.

“Sherlock?” he walked to the bathroom, pushing the door open and finding it empty. His heart had started gently pounding in his chest, with the beginnings of concern as he fought his tired brain to try and think through where Sherlock could have gone. He was walking back towards the bed, when something outside the window caught his eye and in the pre-dawn light he could make out a figure on the beach. He moved closer to the window, squinting his eyes. _Is that Sherlock?_

He grabbed his phone off the side table, checking the time. Five A.M. – too early for the sun to be up yet, but early enough for Sherlock to get out and about and into trouble, possibly. He dialled Sherlock’s mobile, only to hear the sound of it vibrating from somewhere in the room.

“Shit,” he said to himself under his breath as he grabbed his shoes and shoved them on his feet without socks. He pulled roughly at the blanket that had fallen off the end of their bed, tugging it out of its tightly tucked housing, and ran out of his room without a second thought.

The air outside was cooler still, the sea breeze whipping up quite a gust on the hill and John had to stop and brace himself as he stepped out in his light pyjamas with only his open coat to protect him. He readjusted the blanket in his hands and wrapped it around himself as he tried to run across the road and down the path to the sand, with his open-laced shoes clattering uncomfortably on his feet.

As he got closer, it was clear that Sherlock was standing in the waves, up to his knees, and staring out at the open sea, not moving. Stark naked in the freezing cold. John got closer, looking around to check if anyone else was awake, if anyone could actually see them. Luckily in a sleepy town like this was, there was no movement, no lights on. John could see only one light inside a small shop on the esplanade and the scent of fresh bread had wafted past his nose. _Baker_ , he thought to himself. The only people who are ever up in a village before sunrise. He brought his focus back to the water, to Sherlock. _What is happening?_

“Sherlock?” he asked, genuinely worried. But Sherlock gave no response, no sign of movement at all. “Sherlock?” he tried more loudly, standing on the edge of the waves, as close as he could get without the water getting on his only decent pair of shoes.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock hummed, not committing to the communication, or turning to look back at John.

“Sherlock… you all right?” he asked again.

Sherlock stiffened suddenly, obviously returning to his senses. “Yes, yes fine. I’m _fine_ John,” he said in a rush.

“Sherlock—” John said again, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Yes. _I’m fine_ ,” he reiterated more forcefully.

“You’re… it’s just that you’re standing in the ocean, Sherlock. Any reason for that?” John asked carefully. This was reminiscent of Sherlock’s state at the crime scene and John didn’t like it.

“Uh…” Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to grab his dignity back, looking around him to gauge his surroundings. “I couldn’t sleep, and I thought… I…”

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John asked more forcefully, now troubled. He knew it had been a bad idea for Sherlock to stay last night. He should have taken him straight back to Baker Street.

“Ummm… I don’t know how I got here, actually.” Sherlock turned around and John could see he was genuinely lost and confused.

“God, you must be bloody freezing. You’re completely starkers! Get out of there, come on. Let’s get you back in the room and dry you off. Jesus, Sherlock. What are you doing?” he said, in a panic as Sherlock shuffled towards him, into the blanket John held open for him. “This is getting a bit scary Sherlock,” he said as he hugged the blanket around Sherlock and rubbed it a bit in an attempt to warm him up. “You’ve got actual patches of memory missing, now, it seems.”

“I’m _fine_ John. Stop fussing!” Sherlock said, frustration seeping through, but John could tell Sherlock was not entirely convinced of what was happening either.

“Sherlock, you are missing chunks of time. It’s not normal. It’s not a _good_ thing. And I’m worried. I’m _genuinely_ worried. Please tell me that you understand?” John pleaded.

“Yes. I’m perfectly fine!” Sherlock’s stubborn side was rearing its head. John knew it was partially the embarrassment and confusion.

“You keep saying that, but I know you’re not! You’re not fine!” he yelled back.

Sherlock stopped walking for a moment and looked disoriented, as if for the first time he had realised where he was. “John I—”

“It’s all right Sherlock, I’ve got you,” John said, and the relief in Sherlock was clear.

He relaxed his weight against John, his head resting against John’s as John wrapped an arm around his waist to guide him.

“I’ve got you,” he said again, realising how much they both needed to hear it.

___________________

Eventually, Sherlock fell asleep. John covered him with the blanket and stepped back to lean against the wall, his head in his hands. This behaviour was really concerning. It had to be drugs, surely. _It had to be_. Sherlock had to be topping up in secret. Or maybe the meds had reacted with the drugs? Something had to be going on to cause this, otherwise John was really scared that the medical implications were far more terrifying.

By the time he had chewed off two of his fingernails and thought through every possibility, ranging from the probable to the ridiculous, Sherlock had finally fallen into a deep sleep. John eventually was able to lie down on the bed beside him, settling into the pillow to drift off himself.

He didn’t know how long he slept for, but he was woken up violently by Sherlock straddling him and attacking him – aggressively kissing at John’s neck, and biting which was what woke him first. From the shock, he breathed in some of Sherlock’s wild curls, which were dancing in front of his face as Sherlock moved fiercely above him. The mouthful of unexpected hair making John splutter.

“Sherlock!” he yelled finally, as his shirt was torn, Sherlock’s nails scratching at his chest. John tried to grab at him. “Stop that, Sherlock!” he cried again, trying to snap him out of it, before pushing him off roughly. Sherlock fell off John onto the mattress, before sitting up on his heels, looking dazed. He didn’t say a word, but he looked a bit disoriented again.

“Sherlock—” John reached out to his arm and Sherlock jumped off the bed in fright, grabbing at the blanket to wrap himself in it.

“Sherlock!” John leapt up as well, trying to keep a close eye on Sherlock as he moved frantically about the room.

“It’s fine John,” he said, frustrated, pacing about wildly.

“Stop saying that! God! It’s _not_ fine! Sherlock that’s… that’s not what we normally…”

“What? You just want to do all the boring things then?” Sherlock tried to right himself, to make it sound like the behaviour was intentional. Even without grand skills of deduction, John could hear that in his voice. Sherlock had absolutely no idea what he was doing either.

“Sherlock that’s not it and you know it. That’s not your typical behaviour, not how we normally behave together, and that’s a concern to me. But let me assure you, I _want_ to. I’m open to trying all sorts of things with you. Very much. I’m not stopping you because I don’t _want_ to. I’m stopping you because I’m genuinely worried that you’re not of your right mind at the moment.”

“Normal is boring,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

“Well good to know where you stand, but you bloody well know that’s not what I mean!”

Sherlock’s nose pointed to the ceiling in defiance. John stood watching him, trying to figure out from his posture what this was. Sherlock’s toe was tapping incessantly on the rug.

“What are you _on_?” John finally asked. There was no point beating around the bush.  
  
“What?” Sherlock asked, surprised by the question.  
  


“You’re _clearly_ taking something. I’m not an idiot. I’m a doctor for god’s sake, you think I don’t know you’re on something?”

“You haven’t before,” Sherlock said.

“That’s not funny,” John said, angrily. “What have you taken.”

“Nothing. John—”

“Come on, Sherlock.” John couldn’t believe he was going to take that line. As if the last week of weirdness hadn’t even happened.

“Nothing!” he shouted back.

“How can this be from nothing? Look at you! Memory gaps, strange behaviour, confusion. _Violence_. Whatever the hell _this_ just was. Is it possible you have taken something that’s lingering in your system?” As if Sherlock, as the chemist, might know more than John as a doctor. But John was desperate, desperate for answers. Sherlock was watching him very closely. His mind was definitely alert right in this moment and John was suddenly very self-conscious.

“You think I did it,” Sherlock demanded suddenly.

“No. What? No.” John was caught off-guard. That was not what he was implying.

“You think I’m capable of stabbing that woman. Do you think I did all of them, then? That I’m some sort of rogue evening murderer, getting a fix and chasing after victims across the continent?”

“No, Sherlock, _no_. Stop that. Don’t be ridiculous. You couldn’t have been at the others. There’s actually a strong case for releasing you from the suspect list now.”

“But the girl? You think I could have—”

“Sherlock, you’re not yourself! You keep behaving like this… and they will find you very suspicious. Yes. Quite frankly I’m at a loss. You’re all over the shop and I can’t even fathom what’s going on with you, and you’re scaring me!” John couldn’t help his voice rising. He couldn’t help yelling. He was disturbed by the whole thing. Now was the very worst time for Sherlock to be falling apart.

Sherlock stood very still for a moment, thinking. John knew he was probably taking some time in his mind palace, cataloguing the sensations, trying to understand what was happening for himself. Just when John thought he would need to say something, Sherlock looked at him, really looked at him. His breathing became a bit heavier, his brow creased, and it looked like he was confused by his own emotions for a brief moment, before he crumbled to the ground in a flood of tears. John had never seen him like that, in all their time together. Even through all their fighting after the extraction, he had maintained some stability. Sherlock was lost right now. So completely lost.

“John… what’s wrong with me? Why is this happening?” he said finally, between sobs.

John dropped down beside him and wrapped his arms around him tightly. He could feel Sherlock shaking beneath his hands and it was strange how someone who normally seemed so tall and so strong had dissolved so completely.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I don’t know but we are going to find out. I’m taking you home. _Now_.”

He grabbed his phone and dialled the number he was not looking forward to calling.

“Mycroft, I’m not sure where you are right now but Sherlock needs you. He’s not well… yes… he’s with me. In Yorkshire. Your driver brought him apparently… yes, that’s right. No he’s _not_ fine. Not even a little bit. He’s had a complete meltdown here. Yes of course I am. I’m bringing him back to London now. Yes. Can you have Mary meet us back at the flat, I’ll need her help. Thanks, yes of course. I’ll keep you posted. Yes we’ll be at Baker Street.”

___________________

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Mycroft hung up the phone, closing his eyes tight. “Damn it,” he said under his breath, dropping back to the pillow.

“Do you think he knew you were here?” Greg asked, lying comfortably beside him.

“No, I don’t think so.” Mycroft said carefully. “And he doesn’t need to know.”

“Got it.” Greg smiled at him, despite the obvious seriousness of the moment.

Mycroft turned his head to drink in the man beside him. Greg looked ravishing lying against the white sheets, hair all scruffy, just the right amount of stubble that was enticing without being painful, and the greying hair on his chest inviting Mycroft’s head back to lie against it, but he resisted. The decision to surprise Greg in an uncharacteristic show of romance, was one he had been uncertain of. Ever since their chat on the street outside Sherlock’s flat, he had been wanting to take back what he had said, but it could have become a mistake of epic proportions. Not to mention distracting him during the case was probably not the best timing, he knew that. Nonetheless, he had been easily persuaded by his desperate sibling and here they were. And once again, he had turned a blind eye and Sherlock was in trouble.

“I may need a lift back to Baker Street. They’re taking my car,” he said. Greg laughed at his tone which had come out more sulkily than he had intended. His brother brought the worst out in him sometimes.

“I have a couple of stops to make first,” Greg reminded him.

“I’m sure I can occupy myself,” he replied absently.  
  
“You could come along?” Greg offered, snuggling closer, putting his head onto Mycroft’s shoulder in an attempt to cheer him up.

“No, I think I’ll leave that to you,” he said, but he bent his head to give Greg a quick peck in his messy hair to reassure him.

“I can’t believe you and your brother drove up here. Don’t get me wrong, it was a nice surprise,” Greg said, looking up to flash an adorably shy smile all of a sudden, and Mycroft couldn’t help reaching out to touch his face.

“Sherlock can be… unrelenting. Particularly when he’s in this state of… well I assumed he was high, to be honest. He’s like a dog with a bone. He wasn’t going to sit still at home with Mary or leave it alone until I agreed. And… well it was a nice excuse to surprise you as well,” he smiled gently.

“I can tell I’m getting myself into worlds of trouble,” Greg teased with a smile, giving him a cheeky kiss on his collar bone, “engaging with a Holmes brother like this, and the enemy – at least in Sherlock’s eyes,” he chuckled.

“He’s in trouble, Greg.” Mycroft’s voice shifted to convey the anxiety that was building in his gut.

“Really not good then?” Greg asked, leaving space for Mycroft to talk.

“No. Seems not. John’s taking him home immediately. I’m worried.”

“Well worrying won’t change it,” Greg tried to reassure him. “They’re going back already?”

“Yes, he was calling to say they’re leaving now.”

“Right. Let’s get moving then and I’ll make some quick follow up enquiries on the way. We can hit the road and not be too far behind them. I’m assuming he wants you to meet him at Baker Street and since he doesn’t know you’re actually up here…” Greg already sat up to move, and Mycroft felt thankful that Greg understood him.

As much as he battled with his little brother, Sherlock was his whole world and had always been his top priority. His own emotional issues always got in the way of him really showing Sherlock how important he was, but he felt that made it somehow easier: to watch from afar, to accept Sherlock’s rebukes so long as he knew his brother was okay. It was very hard for him to know Sherlock was struggling and not be able to rush straight to him and help. John had been the best thing to come into their lives on that front. He always knew John would be there, guarding Sherlock fiercely, worrying about him just as constantly. The medical knowledge helped as well. Although, John was prone to a blindness with Sherlock, out of loyalty, out of love, but Mycroft was grateful for the extra set of eyes on him. Sherlock wouldn’t begrudge his brother’s absence or his lateness when John was there looking after him. Mycroft realised he’d been deep in his own head and had stopped listening as Greg prattled to the room while he got his clothes on.

“… I’m not really sure what I’m looking for to be honest. John would have been useful for that, but he should focus on Sherlock. He’s only here to assist me. I do know how to investigate things without them, you know. People forget that sometimes,” he continued stubbornly.

Mycroft smiled at him reassuringly as he climbed out of the bed to find his clothes as well. He couldn’t help remembering how quickly his very expensive three-piece suit had made it to the floor, and he chastised himself at how distracted he had been not to get up and fold it or hang it properly as he usually would. It seemed this scruffy detective had a hold on him, much stronger than even he had anticipated.

“If only we knew more about who these bloody people were,” Greg said, exasperated.

“Well… I can help with that,” Mycroft answered, pulling his trousers up and grabbing for his shirt.

“Oh? You know something?” Greg stopped, halfway through buttoning his shirt to look at Mycroft.  
  
“Yes it came through last night after you left Baker Street.” It probably should have been the first thing he told Greg upon surprising him last night. It was, in part, one of the reasons he had agreed to come all this way with his fraught brother – to share the information. But he had been tongue-tied when Greg had opened his door to find him sitting, reading in the chair, waiting. The look of surprise, excitement and relief that had flooded across Greg’s face had completely wiped Mycroft’s common sense off the board.

“You could have emailed it through, or phoned you know?” Greg said, almost teasingly. “A three-hour car trip was a bit excessive.”

Mycroft walked over to his briefcase on the floor, his shirt hanging open still. “We Holmeses don’t do things by halves.”

“I’m gathering that.” Greg chuckled softly.

As he fumbled with the files in his briefcase, his mind went over the last few hours. Sherlock had been inconsolable at the flat after John left. He became paranoid and aggressive and wouldn’t listen to anyone. Mycroft hadn’t seen his little brother have an episode like that for the longest time, but he knew there was no quietening him, no changing the behaviour until he got what it was that he was fixating on. In this case, he needed John. He was panicked about the case, about what they would find, about whether or not he was guilty and no one bar John could have reassured him.

How Sherlock had become attached to a man that mostly yelled at him in frustration, Mycroft would never understand. Although looking back over at the bed, seeing his latest conquest, he knew there was definitely an allure in that rough-around-the-edges authority figure that he definitely shared with his brother. Too many war movies as a child perhaps? He had been eyeing Greg Lestrade off for many years and had never wanted to cross the threshold into that zone, with someone who considered Sherlock a friend. He had maintained a happy fantasy and kept it to himself – mental images merely relegated to his private spank bank. It was never going to go any further than that. Bumping into him in that seedy establishment the other day had been a happy bonus and he relished being able to sit and properly converse with him. A moment of weakness after too much scotch, had led him to the bathrooms, in pursuit of Greg, after much warring with himself. The kiss had been a surprise he never expected to happen. And it irked him that with a brain as magnificent as his own, it was suddenly almost all he could think about. He was worried that he was not dedicating his brain properly to the case at hand, to saving his brother, the thoughts too pervasive.

Sherlock had called him on it, in his mad state, and demanded that they drive up to pass on the critical information and to… how did he put it? _Scratch the itch._ Nasty, common sentiment. Although, truth be told, now that he’d scratched it, he was perfectly relaxed. At least until John had phoned him with the worst possible news. Concern that the bending to Sherlock’s will could help or hinder his brother’s current mental state, finally playing out in the cruellest way. The guilt was already starting to build inside him; he had made the wrong call. Although, as he glanced back at the bed, at Greg lying back on his side watching him intently, Mycroft had to admit to himself, selfishly, he had no regrets.

“You got one of those Mary Poppins bags then?” Greg mused from the bed, dressed now and waiting.

“Sorry?” Mycroft didn’t understand.

“You were grabbing a file… how much have you got stored in there?” Greg teased.

“All the secrets of the free world, I assure you,” Mycroft said mysteriously as he finally pulled out the file he was looking for and traipsed back to the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Greg sat up beside him.

“This…” he said as he passed the first piece of paper to Greg, “is Elena Rutkowski. Technology was her super-power; began as a hacker in her teen years in St Petersburg. Formerly KGB, defected to the UK five years ago.”

Greg looked over the file, his face a mask of intense concentration. Her hair was not purple in the photo on file, but she was pretty. Even with the short black pixie cut, Mycroft knew he would recognise the girl from the hotel. She was very distinctive in her look.

“And this…” he passed the next page over, “is Prasesh Bakshi. Indian national, ran a very lucrative communications and courier service. Known for speed and discretion.”

The man from the morgue had been captured in a surveillance photo. Neatly dressed in a smart suit, crossing the road, looking important. In a hurry to get somewhere it seemed.

“And now we have a farmer. In a small town in Yorkshire? How could he possibly be connected to either of those people?” Greg asked, frustrated.

“It seems before the sea-change, your man ah…” Mycroft lifted the next page to look at it. “James Andino? Used to be a strongman in Southend.”

“A debt-collector?” Greg asked, confused.

“Yes, and quite good at it, apparently,” Mycroft said, passing the page over for him to view.

“How did you get this so quickly?” Greg asked, his eyes raking over the page furiously.

Mycroft chose not to respond.

“You _know_ something,” Greg said, looking up at Mycroft who was sitting, tight-lipped and suppressing for as long as possible. “So what’s the link? Give it.” Greg asked, looking back at the files as he listened.  
  
“Ex-MI-6. All of them,” Mycroft finally admitted.

“Agents? What, all of them?” Greg asked, looking up incredulously.  
  


“Not agents, no. More… _consultants_. They each had a certain skill-set and background which made them attractive to us. None of them were on the books anymore, you understand.”

“So someone is killing off ex-MI-6 agents? Why?” Greg asked.

“There was certain… traffic. Noise that was coming through our communications that was worrying. I asked Sherlock to…”

“Wait. You spoke to Sherlock about this? That’s how the—”

“I merely _suggested_ there may still be some… that we may have missed some people…” Mycroft began, trying to find the right words very carefully.

It was a lot harder with those eyes piercing through him, to think properly. It was the first time he really understood how Sherlock must have struggled as John’s flat-mate – trying to function normally while the person that had captured your interest was glaring at you so intensely.

“What? You mean the network?” Greg was shocked.

“Yes.” Mycroft looked at his lap, not wanting to acknowledge how much information he was leaking right now to the man that he couldn’t seem to refuse.

“You think this is connected to all of that… to Moriarty? Really?” Greg didn’t seem to believe him.

“It’s possible. I was looking into it, quietly.”

“And you didn’t think to say anything? Before now?!” Greg leapt off the bed suddenly. “Jesus. Does John know?”

It was clear Greg did not want to be the one to tell John that little nugget of information, and Mycroft suspected it would be down to him. “Sherlock didn’t want John to know yet,” he said simply in reply.

  
“Yeah, I’m not surprised. But look how that turned out!” Greg’s voice was raised in frustration as he leaned against the wall angrily.

Mycroft sat silently, his mouth pursed into a tight line.

“He made me promise not to say anything, until we had solid proof.”  
  
“When was that exactly?” Greg demanded. He looked furious.

Mycroft was nervous to answer, and stood from the bed too, as if that would give him some more power somehow. “About an hour before he called John… from the hotel room,” Mycroft admitted.

“You sent him out to look into the network again? Alone?!” Greg was shocked, walking across the room, rubbing his hand over his face in frustration, turning away, and for a moment, Mycroft was worried that he may have ruined it already between them.

“So _do_ you?” he asked, turning back to look Mycroft square in the eyes, as if that might pull a better truth out of him. As if lying wasn’t his most well-honed skill. But for the first time in his adult life, at least, Mycroft was suddenly struck with an emotion he couldn’t place. He wasn’t going to be able to lie to this man now, and that could be very dangerous. “ _Do_ you have proof? Because I swear to god if you sent Sherlock Holmes out to look into some sort of Moriarty fuelled crime-syndicate I may have trouble proving he didn’t kill that woman!” The vein on Greg’s forehead had popped out angrily from the stress.

“I think there is a strong possibility that they may have been recruited by Moriarty at some stage, yes.”

“Shit,” Greg said under his breath. “But Moriarty’s not—”

“No. He’s very dead. We took custody of the body. That much we know,” Mycroft could safely confirm that at least. He’d seen the body personally.

They both stood in the room, neither one knowing what to say next.

“Did Sherlock—” Greg had to ask.

“I’m fairly certain he was framed. An unlucky coincidence.”

“John says you boys don’t believe in coincidences,” Greg replied.

“We don’t.”

“So do you know how the tattoos fit in? The rings?” Greg finally asked.

“Not really, no. Moriarty was of Irish heritage. I suppose the Celtic designs could be some sort of membership card?” he suggested.

“I’m not telling John,” Greg said firmly, giving Mycroft a look as he sat on the end of the bed in defeat.

“Noted,” Mycroft replied, as he came to sit beside Greg.

“You know you could have led with this last night?” he said sulkily.

“I know… I just… once I saw you I…” Mycroft cringed at how his words were deserting him in the presence of this man.

Greg softened when he looked at Mycroft, seeing how anxious he had become.

“Sorry,” Mycroft groaned, looking at his hands.

“You know… the morgue’s not open for another twenty minutes—” Greg finally said, putting a hand on top of Mycroft’s and raising his eyebrows in a show of suggestion and peace-making.

“Perfect.”


	16. Chapter 16

Mycroft took the stairs to the flat faster than he was fit enough to manage, but the panic in his chest needed an outlet. He had left Greg two blocks back, jogging lightly, trying to keep up, but failing. Parking in central London was a nightmare; he was grateful for his driver, usually dropping him directly at the door when he visited. The sheer nuisance of trying to find available parking nearby was enough to destroy Mycroft’s composure. He could only hope he hadn’t also destroyed his chances with the detective after his childish tantrum. In the meantime, all he could do was walk swiftly to the flat and take the stairs so quickly his lungs started to hurt. In that pain, he was able to feel slightly less culpable, slightly less anxious. The urgency with which he flew into the flat to see Sherlock, startled poor Mary, unintentionally. She was sitting peacefully in John’s chair reading a book.

“Lord’s saints!” she let out on a loud whisper, before putting her finger to her lips to shush him, gesturing in the direction of the bedroom with her head. “He’s sleeping.”

Mycroft nodded in understanding, changing pace to walk quietly along the corridor, so he could peek his head through the door to the bedroom. Sherlock really _did_ look pale and drawn. But he appeared to be sleeping peacefully, snuggled beneath a duvet. Mycroft returned to the lounge and stood, imposing his height over Mary, hoping to feel better about his own guilt, by passing the blame.

“Where’s John?” he asked, hoping to shift some blame there next.

“Gone to the lab with new bloods,” she said absently, not looking up from her book, nor seeming to be intimidated in the slightest. “Sherlock slept all the way back in the car as well apparently. John almost had to carry him up the stairs alone, but I arrived just as they pulled up to the curb and helped him. Sherlock was looking very weak.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said absently, glancing back in the direction of the bedroom with unease, before sitting in Sherlock’s leather chair. “What does John think? Did he say? What do _you_ think?”

She paused her reading, resting a hand on the book to hold her place and gave Mycroft a sympathetic smile. He found it patronizing, although he was sure it was a well-practiced look she used regularly in her work. “Not too sure,” she said gently. “It’s got to be drugs though, surely, given his history?”

“Could it be… physical, though? An illness? Ailment?” he asked, with naïve hope. “Or is it psychological? Have we pushed him too fast with the physical therapy? Not enough support emotionally after the extraction? PTSD?”

“Hmmm,” she hummed in thought, not agreeing to anything in particular. “There’s certainly _something_ causing him confusion and distress.”

“Brain injury?” Mycroft tried, enjoying having someone medical it the room to quiz in John’s absence. “Should we be getting him scanned?”

The question lingered in the air as Greg came bursting through the door, making a dramatic example of how out of breath he was, throwing Mycroft a frustrated look for leaving him behind, before flopping onto the couch to catch his breath. _He really needs to smoke less and get on a treadmill more_ , Mycroft thought, before dismissing the concern. It wasn’t his place – not yet at least.

“John wanted to start with the blood screening first. Apparently the tox screen came through on the trip back, but the results didn’t add up. He didn’t talk me through it all though; everything was so rushed.”

Mycroft nodded, deep in thought.

“Where’s John?” Greg asked, looking around. “Is Sherlock here? Is he okay?” he tried to catch up.  
  


“Sleeping,” Mary offered again with a nod, as Mycroft’s phone started trilling in his pocket.

“John,” he said urgently, before moving the phone away from his ear and changing it to speaker phone. Mary and Greg both instinctively leaned forward to listen despite it being loud enough.

“… at the lab,” John continued, “with Molly. We’re running a sample again. I didn’t like the first series of results. They can’t be right.”

“Excellent. And Sherlock? What do you think is happening there?” Mycroft asked, hopeful of some better information.

“I honestly don’t know Mycroft, it could be anything – a lack of proper sleep and food, a reaction to his meds, drugs, even a brain tumor.” There was a pause as John swallowed loudly enough that it translated through the phone line. “I just want to run these first before we get ahead of ourselves.”

“What’s been different? What’s changed lately?” Mycroft asked, trying to work out what had started this transformationin his brother.

“Nothing. _Nothing’s_ been different. He’s been good. He’s down to one therapy session a week and one tablet a day. The nurses have been checking on him, on _both_ of us, every couple of weeks just to make sure everything is normal, that we’re doing everything right. And he has me there with him all the time. Everything has been _fine_. His appetite was back… he’d been working cases from home… until he wanted to go out to see one crime scene and I refused to let him go. We had one fight. _One._ Everything else has been fine.”

Mycroft sneered, despite clearly hearing the guilt in John’s voice as well. He could tell John was assuming drugs, with the fight as the trigger. “You haven’t been… _overdoing_ it have you?”

“Oh Mycroft! I hope you’re not implying what I think you are,” John replied with a sigh.

“Well it’s just that with a new relationship…”

“We have barely even… we’ve only just… I’m not talking about _this_ with you,” John said, angrily. “But if I _were_ to talk about it with you, I would tell you it’s none of your business.”

“If my brother’s health is at stake, it _is_ my business,” Mycroft replied stubbornly. He looked over to see Greg shaking his head in his hand. Apparently it wasn’t an appropriate question to ask, but really why shouldn’t he ask it?

“It’s been very… chaste, between us all right?” John said with a loud sigh. “Because I _don’t_ want him to overdo things. We’ve tried to be very… careful. _Much_ to Sherlock’s annoyance, and part of the reason we fought the night of the murder. His patience had run out, he felt trapped in the flat and suffocated in our relationship, I’m sure, and I told him he couldn’t go out on a case.” John sounded exasperated.

Greg flicked Mycroft a knowing glance. It was clear that John _thought_ Sherlock went out to investigate one of the Yard’s cases that night. Greg and Mycroft both knew otherwise now.

“We argued about the fact that he wasn’t ready. It had all been working well up until then. We’d done a number of cases from the flat but this one… I don’t know what happened. And as far as our relationship is concerned, as far as _that’s_ concerned we’ve been very cautious. Last night was the first time we even…” John paused for a moment. “You have me on speaker phone don’t you?” he suddenly said, embarrassed.

“Yes,” Mary replied with mild amusement.

“Hi John,” Greg called out.

“Talk us through it,” Mycroft continued, not acknowledging the embarrassment. His focus was solely on Sherlock now, “the case you had been working on, I mean.”

“I have to go, _Mycroft_ ,” he spat. “Greg already knows all of that – he can fill you in. Just let me do _this_ first and then I’ll come right home, and we can talk it through. Among _other_ things,” he added under his breath, sounding displeased. “Is he still resting?” he asked of Sherlock, his voice clearly softer now, worried.

“Yes fast asleep. Mary’s here. It’s all fine, John. We’ll see you soon then. I have news too,” Mycroft added.

And with that, John hung up the phone. Mycroft looked to Greg, his guilt plastered all over his face.

“Shall we look through the case notes?” Greg offered, trying to pacify him.

Mycroft nodded without a word and moved over to sit beside him on the couch. He sat closer than he needed to, the pressure of their knees and thighs touching was comforting, somehow.

“Why don’t I get you both a tea?” Mary offered sympathetically, closing her book and heading to the kitchen, to give them privacy.

“Lovely,” Greg said, throwing her a winning smile. Mycroft had already started sifting through the thick file on the coffee table that Greg had, thankfully, brought with him, trying to still his heart rate which was vaulting out of control. Greg put a hand on his knee to steady him, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“What are these?” Mycroft asked, without acknowledging the touch.

“The tattoos – from the victims. Tattoos that don’t make any sense, mind you. They’re not the same on each victim, or at least not identical in every case, but they have the Celtic markings like the rings. I mean it doesn’t tell us anything really does it?”

“Well Moriarty was Irish. The design could have been his choosing? As I said this morning, maybe it’s some sort of membership tier in the network? Maybe each specific design means something? Although it doesn’t seem particularly significant on its own,” he pointed out. “What about where they were placed? Could that be significant?”

Mary positioned the tea in front of them, before returning to the chair with her book, trying to stay out of the way. Mycroft wondered what she thought of all this. He was certainly impressed by her professionalism and being as invisible as possible during their discussions.

Greg glanced through his notes. “Well you said our hotel lady…”

“Elena Rutkowski,” Mycroft reminded him.

“Right. Elena Rut…” Greg couldn’t repeat it, so he stopped mid-surname. “She was a hacker? IT skills, and the tattoo was on her… wrist. So that’s close to her hand,” he pointed out as he found the right part of his file. And the courier?”

“Prasesh Bakshi,” Mycroft filled in.

Greg paused to look at him, without going on.

“What?” Mycroft asked him, looking suddenly self-conscious under the scrutiny.

“How do you remember the names like that?” Greg asked.

“I work for the government,” he replied simply.

“You can’t possibly remember _every_ name on the books though?” Greg asserted.  
  


“Can’t I?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows in surprise, as Greg stared at him, in awe, and the heat between them made Mycroft truly blush. He took a sip from his tea and broke the spell.

Greg returned to his notes. “Right, well he’s a courier – a runner? Right?”

“That’s right,” Mycroft agreed.

“Tattoo was on his leg,” Greg pointed out, feeling a bit more excited. “And your strongman’s tattoo was…”

“James Andino. On his bicep,” Mycroft added with a nod.

“Oh my god, you really are brilliant aren’t you? You should bottle whatever it was your parents fed you boys as children,” Greg let out, shaking his head.

Mycroft blushed again. He looked up to see Mary watching them, before she adjusted her curls around her ear nervously and looked back at her book.

“Their tattoos seem to match their professions, possibly. Maybe we’re overthinking it, but it could be relevant. There is something familiar about the design that I just can’t place,” Mycroft said, deep in thought.

“You’re telling me you have all those weird names in your head, but you can’t remember where you’ve seen the tattoo design before?” Greg teased.

“Well it’s a fairly common design – the triquetra. Not necessarily in this form, but still something about it is familiar that I can’t place.”

“Does everyone know that name – the tri… whatever?” Greg asked, sounding irritated at his lack of knowledge.  
  


“Triquetra,” Mycroft assisted. “The trinity knot.”

“Yes, okay. Molly said it’s one of the most common designs as well. That’s not really helpful then, is it?” Greg said, as Mycroft grabbed his phone to look at the screen, a text alert interrupting them.

“True. But luckily, I’ve had someone doing some digging in our database,” Mycroft said. He turned his phone towards Greg to show a photograph. There was the farmer, in a tattoo parlour showing off his handiwork on his bicep, the shop name clear as day in the background.

Greg pulled his keys out of his pocket without needing to be told. “Let’s go.”

___________________

John arrived home and climbed the stairs slowly. He was bone-tired. The second tox screen only presented him with more questions than answers really, and none of them good. Thankfully there was enough evidence in the bloodwork to explain Sherlock’s decline. Not a tumour, or anything physical like that, thank heavens. But deciding the cause of the results was going to be the challenge. Was it deliberate self-harm or sinister manipulation by someone? And by who, if that was the case? Was Sherlock aware?

John slumped his shoulders, preparing to face Mycroft’s interrogations but the lounge was empty. Empty that was, except for Sherlock, sitting on the sofa, dressed in a pair of very attractive dark blue jeans and a light blue shirt, buttoned up, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. John hadn’t seen him dress comfortably, casually like this, ever. It was usually business suits or pyjamas, _or a bed sheet and birthday suit_ , he mused to himself for a moment, remembering the palace. But now he seemed peaceful and relaxed, reading something and actually humming a melody to himself. He didn’t acknowledge John though – he would have known it was John from the way he moved the key in the door already, or some such nonsense.

“Where’s Mary?” John asked, worried by how quiet the apartment was.

“We ran out of milk,” Sherlock said absently as he carried on reading the papers in his hand.

“What about Mycroft and Greg? They were just here, weren’t they?” John asked, concerned that Sherlock had been left alone for any length of time.

“No idea, they weren’t here when I came out,” Sherlock said, still not really looking at John. He was occupied.

John didn’t know how much to ask or press. His mind was still processing information and trying to put together his own thoughts. He walked straight to the kitchen – his most pressing job for the moment – grabbing a zip-lock bag from the drawer to start tipping Sherlock’s medication into. Modafinil was what _should_ have been in the tablets, what should have been in his system – helping him come off the opioids and keeping any residual addiction at bay. But there was no sign of it in his bloodwork at all. The traces of Ketamine and Midazolam were far more concerning, as was the Lisdexamphetamine. There was no reason for him to have any of that in his system. He had not been prescribed any of that. John looked at the tablets in the zip-lock, before putting them into his jacket pocket. He would need to give these to Greg, right after having Molly test them. He didn’t know if he should talk to Sherlock about the results yet – or try to work out what was going on first.

“Right…” John said, coming back into the lounge room, trying to cover his deceptiveness with a brighter tone – probably wasted on Sherlock who would instantly know he was up to something. But Sherlock ignored him as he read, and for the first time John really looked at what Sherlock was so engrossed in.

“Wait, what are you doing Sherlock? Are those Greg’s case files?! You’re not meant to be looking at those! If they call you back in for questioning and you’ve seen these—”

“What, John? You can’t possibly think you can solve this without me?” Sherlock said, finally looking up at him. John at least felt relieved that he looked more alert now, less vulnerable. The sleep must have done him some good. _Or the drugs have worn off._

  
“Thanks _very_ much,” he retorted, slightly offended.

“No, but seriously. John, you _need_ me to look at these. They’re quite interesting, I thought—”

“You _can’t_ Sherlock, you’re a suspect!” John said angrily as he leaned over and grabbed at each of the papers, collecting them into the folder roughly, pulling the last page out of Sherlock’s hand dramatically and slapping it loudly on top of the pile in frustration.

“What are you so angry about? They were just lying out here for me to see!” Sherlock said, not understanding the implications at all.

“Yeah, well sometimes Sherlock, you don’t need to see everything!” John yelled angrily.

“Are we talking about the papers still? Or something else? Why are you in such a bad mood?” Sherlock asked.

“Because, Sherlock, you don’t seem to be taking any of this very seriously! And someone’s been—” John began without meaning to, turning his back on Sherlock, to stop himself.

“Been what?” Sherlock was suddenly being far more observant of John’s behaviour and he didn’t like it. “What are you so worried about, John?”

John closed his mouth and his eyes tightly, angry at himself for almost saying something he shouldn’t have. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, calculating.

“I don’t understand why a collection of crime scene photographs, victim dossiers and pictures of tattoos would get you so worked up. They hardly seem like hardened criminals – some IT expert, a courier and a farmer? Not a collection of people I’d deem worthy of murder. If I was going to really pick someone to—” 

“Why are you trying so hard to get yourself thrown in prison?! Do you think that’s what I want?!” John yelled, snapping suddenly, gesturing wildly with his hands. The files fell out of his grip, landing all over the floor in a jumbled mess of documents. “Oh for god’s sake!” he yelled, looking to the ceiling, trying to regain control.

Sherlock started to get up to grab them. “Leave it! Just…” John put a hand on his hip in frustration, his face covered by the other hand. “… just leave it. Sherlock… I just need you to do what I’m asking, please. For _once_. For your own good.” His voice broke and he cleared his throat loudly, embarrassed. Sherlock sat back down looking worried. “Don’t touch them. I’ll—” John’s phone rang, interrupting them, and he answered, giving Sherlock a stern face of warning to stay where he was.

“Yes, Mycroft. I’m here but you… I see… right, well that’s good then. Yes he’s awake. I’m just… sure send it through and I can go… yes I need to talk to you about that but not… yes just give me a minute…” John gave Sherlock a look and moved down the corridor, closing himself into the bedroom for privacy.

“Someone has been tampering with his medication, Mycroft. I don’t know if he’s doing it to himself somehow, or if it’s been tampered with at the hospital or en route _from_ there, but it has been interfered with, nonetheless. That’s why he’s been off the last couple of weeks. It’s got to be in the tablets. It’s the only thing he still takes regularly. I’ve bagged them up. I’ll need Molly to run them at the lab to confirm. Sherlock has none of the right markers in his system that he should have. His brain chemistry is being messed with… on purpose. I don’t know why or by whom.” John felt a sense of relief at being able to say it aloud finally, to someone he trusted.

The silence on the other end of the phone made him tense, though. “So you’re at a tattoo parlour? Don’t get anything too outlandish,” John tried to joke inappropriately, scrunching his face up at himself. Awkward silences did make him so uncomfortable. He cleared his throat to regroup. “Right, well I’ll follow up on the address, just send it through. I’ll stop by the lab on the way.”

He hung up the phone and came back out of the bedroom. As he walked slowly closer, he could see Sherlock was sitting very still, very quiet on the couch. John wondered if he had heard any of the call but was impressed to see Sherlock hadn’t made any moves to clean up the papers yet, or to move at all, in fact. He was behaving.

“John, I’d like to help. Let me help,” Sherlock said quietly, as John got closer.

“Sherlock I just…” he stopped mid-sentence as he glanced down at the floor. For a moment he couldn’t move. He tilted his head for a moment and then walked slightly to the side to look at a different angle.

“What? What is it John?” Sherlock asked, trying to see what John could see.

“The tattoos. They look similar but are different shapes…”

“Yes, and?” Sherlock asked.

“Because they aren’t finished. They’re part of a larger puzzle,” John said, as his brain whirred.

Sherlock stood up to see what John was looking at. Sure enough, the photos of the tattoos had fallen in such a way that they fit together in an almost fan shape on the floor. Not perfectly, not like a jigsaw, but the way they fell, John could see sense. Sherlock was still trying to see what John had noticed as John raced over to the desk, opening his laptop and logging in, beginning a search. Sherlock stepped over the papers, still not sure what the mess was really supposed to be showing him.

“There it is,” he said, sitting back in the chair, satisfied.

“A Celtic cross?” Sherlock asked.

John got up again and walked over to the paper, pointing at it. “The tattoos don’t look complete on their own because each of them is a piece of the cross. An arm. Each of our victims had one piece of the cross placed on a different part of their body. But the bell shape with the triad symbol inside?”

“Triquetra,” Sherlock corrected.

“Right. It’s on the arms of the Celtic cross. At least the one I saw as a boy when I visited my uncle in Dyce. And look, Sherlock,” he said as he walked back to the computer. A ring, encircling it? I think somehow the tattoos and their rings are representing this cross.”

“So the person we are looking for is of Celtic decent? Or religious?”

“Or both,” John said.

They both stood looking at the picture on the screen. A sketch of a cross with bell like arms, one longer than the other three, but all of them sporting the trinity knot, and all of them intersected by an ornate ring in the middle.

“I didn’t see it,” Sherlock finally said.

“Sherlock, things are… not right at the moment, for you. It’s not your fault. I’m looking into it.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking to John for answers, his eyes full of expectation and confusion. John wasn’t used to being the person with the answers, especially not during a case. It felt completely unsettling.

“Never mind,” John said gently. “Greg’s texted me an address. I need to go out and investigate. Possibly the missing arm on that cross, possibly the perpetrator of all of this.”

“Well you shouldn’t do that on your own, then,” Sherlock said, concerned.

“Well I can’t take you. They’re going to meet me there with backup,” John reassured him.

“Look at me John, I feel fine. I look _fine_. Let me help. _Please_.”

Sherlock had long ago learned the art of begging John in such a way that John couldn’t resist.

“Fine,” he conceded, with a loud sigh. “But you need to stay behind me. At all times.”

“I can do that,” Sherlock agreed with a smile. “John?”

“Yes?” John asked with an eyeroll, already regretting his decision.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said warmly.

“Let me just leave Mary a note, so she doesn’t think you’ve run off on her again!”


	17. Chapter 17

They stepped out of the cab and onto the street together, having not spoken the entire cab ride to Hackney. John checked Sherlock was okay by touching his arm as they stood there, giving him a concerned look. Sherlock reassured him with a gentle nod, to usher him forward, in answer. Things were still fragile between them, but they were here together, as a team, on a case, like old times. It felt wonderful, actually.

The terraced house on Olinda Road seemed unassuming, aside from its red door. The exposed, unpainted brick looked slightly dirty with age and the jagged brick fence design attempting to mimic a picket-fence failed to hit the mark. Each window had white lace curtains to block nosey passers-by from looking in, although it did nothing to improve the charm of the place, the white lace clashing badly with the cream windowsill paint. Cars lined both sides of the street but most of the houses – on this side of the street at least – had no light. The early evening had not brought their occupants home from their day jobs yet. The neighbourhood was quiet.

John stood looking at the red door, trying to decide how best to approach it.

“What’s the plan?” Sherlock leaned in and whispered into John’s ear, sending a delighted shiver down his neck in the moment, unexpectedly.

“Mycroft suspects this could be another one of our victims, or the killer. Traced them through the tattoo somehow. I didn’t get to ask questions,” he replied, his mouth suddenly dry. He closed his eyes for a moment to enjoy the sensation of their closeness, before returning his focus to the task at hand. Now was not the time to get distracted.

“Right. So are we knocking on the door, or breaking in?” Sherlock asked quietly, his voice sounding far too excited by the prospect.

“Not sure, hadn’t thought that far ahead actually.”

“Do you have your gun?”  
  


“Obviously.”

“I say we try picking the lock and sneaking in to look around first,” he suggested.

“Sherlock.”  
  


“Come on John, it’s been ages since we’ve been able to have some fun,” Sherlock said with a cheeky look. “Please?”

“Fine. But once you get that door open I want you safely behind me,” John demanded.

“Understood,” he agreed.

Sherlock had a bounce in his step as he leapt forward. He took a moment to lean towards the front bay window to the left of the door first, to peer in the gap of the lace curtains and check that no one was observably in the front room, before grabbing a tool from his pocket and fidgeting with the doorknob. It took him all of twelve seconds to open the door and he gave John the cheekiest of grins in absolute pride for his handy work, before slowly and quietly opening the door. John raced forward to push past Sherlock, ensuring he was protecting him, gun in hand and crouched slightly, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. He grabbed out a small torch from his pocket, ready to guide their movement. It wasn’t entirely dark outside but once they entered, the hallway was indeed dark enough to need the torch light.

They walked quietly into the front sitting room and began looking around. John wasn’t one for deductions, but already, the décor seemed more feminine than he expected. The sheer number of cushions on the couch alone screamed “girlfriend”. Overall, it didn’t have a very homely feel though. It was definitely home to someone busy, or unsentimental, who didn’t take pride in their home, or spend much time there – aside from some basic comforts.

“Do you see John? No photos, nothing personal on the walls?” Sherlock whispered.  
  


“Yes. But lots of cushions,” John also whispered loudly in reply. “Female?”

“Possibly, or a partner decorated for them. Are we sure it’s the right address?” Sherlock asked.

“Well let’s hope so, now that you’ve committed a felony to get in here,” John sassed softly.

“It’s only a felony if I take something,” Sherlock teased.

John threw him an annoyed look. “Not helping.” He had missed this, though.

“What are you planning to do if we find this person?” Sherlock asked.

“I’ll be posing some questions at gunpoint, that’s for sure,” John asserted, before checking his phone screen for an incoming text. “Greg is on his way, apparently.”

“Okay great. Shall we keep looking? We could split up?” Sherlock suggested.

“Not a chance,” John whispered, giving Sherlock a stern look.

He replied with an eyeroll of impatience. “Just trying to be efficient.”

“Well stop it,” John reprimanded him. “You’re lucky I let you come at all.”

“I know. Thank you for that, by the way,” Sherlock said, flashing John a stunning grin he rarely used.

“Stop it,” John scolded.  
  


“What?”

“Stop being nice. I can’t concentrate when you look at me like that,” John said absently as he continued looking about the room.  
  
“Really?” Sherlock asked seductively, with a smile, clearly intrigued.

“Really,” John blushed. “Let’s just focus on the task at hand all right?”

“Got it.” Sherlock followed, but John could sense that Sherlock continued to smile at his back, and his ears reddened at the thought.

They navigated together in the dark, John signalling down the hallway and Sherlock following obediently.

A loud bump made John spin around, gun and torch pointed in front of him with confidence, only to find nothing but Sherlock.

“Sorry, that was me, bumping into the entryway table,” he whispered.

John let out a sigh. “Just… be careful,” he whispered back. “I could have shot you.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock replied again.

They kept walking to the back room, which held the dining table with the kitchen off to the side. Again, not many furnishings or decorations but something distinctly feminine about the small touches.

“Perhaps we should look upstairs?” Sherlock suggested, not seeing anything interesting here.

“Good idea, follow me,” John directed.

They went back down the hallway, looking out for the entry table this time, before hooking around to walk up the staircase. The carpet was surprisingly soft and made for almost imperceptible movement around the house. If anyone was home they should be able to easily move about undetected, but similarly, John was aware this meant the occupant could also move about without them knowing. His senses were prickling as they moved from room to room, expecting to find something – or hoping to – at the same time worried what it might mean if they _did_.

They walked into a room, which was obviously a study or spare room: no bed, but a small couch and a desk. Simple furnishings once again. John moved his torch over the walls, and items, stopping at a bookcase – an eclectic collection of psychology and medical texts as well as some fiction and travel books – nothing particular enough to point to any one suspect.

“John,” Sherlock said from the other wall. John swung around, to see Sherlock using his phone torch to look at the opposite wall. It was decorated, littered even, from top to bottom and it took his breath away. A giant map, with photographs, strings and notes all attached. There was obviously some plotting happening in this space.

“Sherlock,” John finally said as he spotted a familiar face on the large wall. “The girl from the hotel.” There she was, this time with bright red hair, but again her facial features were distinctive enough that it was obviously her. “They’re all here,” he said as he spotted the other victims, moving his torch across the map.

“John, look.” Sherlock pointed his attention to the top right corner where clear as day there was a photograph of the two of them. Not a newspaper clipping, but a proper photograph, taken by surveillance of some kind. By their outfits alone, John could tell it was a couple of months ago when they had gone out to dinner nearby. One of the only times John had agreed to let Sherlock leave the flat. He remembered it had been only under the proviso that a cab takethem door to door, with no extra walking. Sherlock had worn a crisp white shirt and a stunning navy suit which brought out his eyes and John had worn a jumper Mrs Hudson had knitted him herself. John remembered spending the night completely smitten with Sherlock in his fine attire after so much pyjama wearing. Obviously so much so, the both of them had missed noticing being watched by someone else – at least, according to the photo now pinned to the wall.

“Why are we…? God, Sherlock, what _is_ this?” John asked. “This place has nothing particularly personal on the walls, no evidence of someone really living here, and yet they have been watching us. Monitoring us by the look. Photographing us. I feel sick.”

“John we don’t know what this is. You don’t know how they came to have that photograph. Don’t worry yet, not without proof.” Sherlock spoke so calmly, it almost convinced John, until he found, pinned to the wall under their pictures, a list of Sherlock’s medications with notes beside them.

“Sherlock, someone’s been tampering with your meds,” John admitted without thinking.

“What?” Sherlock was shocked.  
  


“The dizzy spells, the memory loss – waking up in the hotel room?”

“But I… I took something, at the bar,” Sherlock confessed, sounding guilty.

“Yes, you did. But _why_ did you?” John asked.

“I don’t… I…” Sherlock was suddenly stumped.

“Don’t remember, right?” John checked. “Someone’s been playing you. Someone who had access to either the production or the delivery of your medication. It’s been tampered with. For a few weeks now. You haven’t been taking what you should have been. And they’ve been priming you to fall off the wagon, to lose control.”

Sherlock looked at John and it was obvious that not only was he trying to process the fact, but he also was angry to not have been told until now, in this moment.

“John—”

“Your physical therapist,” John interrupted him.

“What?”

“Did he have any tattoos you could see? A ring?” John suddenly was excitedly piecing options together.

“Not that I remember. You think _this_ is the therapist? I mean, you might as well accuse Mary,” Sherlock laughed.

“No. Of course not, that’s ridiculous,” John agreed. “We’ve had a range of different nurses over time. Mary hasn’t had access to you all the time. But your therapist has.”

“I think that’s ludicrous. Do you think this is his house? That he’s plotting to take me down? Why?” Sherlock didn’t seem to think it was probable.

“I don’t know. Sometimes people don’t have a good reason,” John said.

“It’s not likely, John.”

“Well why would anyone _else_ want to?” John felt so completely frustrated now.

“I don’t know – I’ve pissed a lot of people off over the years. Hardly surprising is it?” he asked.

“Sherlock.”  
  
“John it’s okay.”

“It’s really _not_ , Sherlock I just want—”

A noise startled them both and John grabbed his gun, pushing Sherlock behind him, to get him into a protected position.

“Stay here,” he demanded.

“No, John.”

“Do as I say, Sherlock. Stay here!” he whispered loudly. He handed Sherlock the torch and walked out of the room before Sherlock could argue. Moving down the corridor slowly, toward the other bedroom, he could see the door was ajar, and he edged closer, gun pointing ahead, feeling on edge. Every one of his nerve endings felt like they were buzzing with the adrenaline. Admittedly, he had missed this. He slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside, checking quickly behind the door as well, for any hiding assailant.

The light outside was only just starting to drop properly but a bright street lamp outside sent enough orange light into the front bedroom, to help John take in some of the details in the fading light. Once again, there were no photos on the walls, no pictures. The bedspread was floral – obviously a female choice – and more cushions on the bed. It looked comfortable. He took a moment to look out of the lace curtains to the street below as he walked past the window. There was no movement – still the street was at peace. A house further down the street now had its internal lights on. Probably dinner time for a young family. He checked the wardrobe, opening the door quickly and pointing his gun ahead of him in readiness. Finding nothing there, he tried the ensuite as well, to no avail. The noise hadn’t come from this location.

As he walked back out into the bedroom he noticed – on the other wall – a set of knives hanging on a series of nails to display them. Silver Celtic knives with various ornate patterns and handles – reminiscent of the one pulled from Sherlock’s jacket pocket. _The murder weapon._ There were three on the wall, and two sets of empty nails that were now empty, where knives used to hang. John grabbed at his phone in his pocket, hoping to get a photograph of the knives as proof. This could indeed be the home of someone involved in this. It could be the owner of the murder weapon. He reached towards the lamp, to switch it on, just for a moment, just long enough to take a clear picture of them, when he heard a gunshot, and his heart stopped.

“Sherlock?” he asked quietly, as he forgot about the photo, and the knives. “Sherlock?” he whispered louder, moving carefully out of the bedroom, but not getting any reply. He heard shuffling and groaning. “Sherlock is that you?” he tried again.

Seeing no one blocking his path, John ran back to the small study room, his gun held high, but the room was empty. Sherlock had gone.

“Sherlock!” he yelled this time, his heart rate starting to thud faster, the blood pumping in his ears, but he was trained for this. He had to stay calm. Gun in hand, he walked carefully back down the stairs, keeping watch on all sides, moving his gun as he checked each direction for danger. _Where ha_ _s_ _Sherlock gone?_ _I told him to bloody well stay put!_

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the foyer area was particularly dark, any outside light blocked by the wooden front door. He felt the thud into his shoulder before he saw the movement even come at him, and he was knocked to the ground by something, by _someone_. His gun flew out of his hand and he let out a grunt as the air was pushed out of his lungs unexpectedly from the force. Once he hit the floor, he spun around quickly to find a big shadow standing near him. Clearly a man: tall, broad shoulders, pretty bulky, obviously used to being a human battering ram.

“Who are you? Why do you have photos of us?” John asked, heaving some breaths to get oxygen back into his lungs.

The man said nothing in return. He just stood, staring. John could hear Sherlock groaning.

“Sherlock? Where are you?” he asked as he slowly shuffled backwards on his behind, to grab for his gun, without making the movement too obvious to the stranger.

“I’m in here, John,” Sherlock said, his voice coming from the front room.

“Why can you never just listen to me, for god’s sake?” John said, in frustration, all the while keeping his eyes glued to the man in shadow. “I’ve seen your knives, yeah? And your photo wall. I don’t know who you are, but we are on to you. The police are on their way.” _God he hoped that was true._ “Sherlock are you all right?” he checked.

“Yes, I’ll be… fine,” he said, pausing to grunt in what must be pain.

The man still hadn’t moved, or spoken, or shown his face. It was unsettling, but the longer he stood there, the more time it gave John to creep slowly backwards, until his gun finally tickled the edge of his fingers and he slowly, very slowly grasped it back intohis hand.

“Aren’t you going to say anything for yourself?” John asked the man, firmly. “They _will_ catch you. You aren’t getting out of here. Why do you have photos of us in your room?”

In the distance, the police sirens started to wail, heralding their arrival in the area. Without a word, the man lurched forward to grab John and without thinking, his training came to the fore and he fired the gun. The man was stopped in his tracks as he fell to the floor. The sirens grew closer and John breathed a loud sigh of relief, before leaping up to run into the sitting room.

“Sherlock!” he called out as he negotiated around the furniture to find him, lying on the floor behind a chair.

“What happened to the man?” Sherlock asked, as John fell to the floor beside him.

“Well I shot him. Obviously,” John replied, sounding smug.

“Right.” Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried not to whimper from the pain. They could hear groaning from the hallway, from the other man, but very little other noise.

“Don’t worry, I just shot him in the shoulder, the shock’s put him on the ground but I suspect he’ll be up again soon enough. I just needed to check on you first. Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m okay, it’s just my leg. I’ve been shot in the leg.”

“God Sherlock. When I heard that gunshot go off—”

“It hurts well enough, though. God, it actually _really_ hurts,” he admitted, sucking in another breath and grabbing at his thigh. There was blood all around him in a pool now.

John grabbed his phone out of his pocket and turned on the torch light to look at the leg. “Hold that,” he said, handing Sherlock the phone, as he tore the fabric where the gunshot had broken through and began rummaging around the wound. Sherlock sucked in more air between his teeth in agony.

“Well they haven’t hit your femoral artery, so you’ll be okay. We’ll still need to get you to the hospital,” John said, putting his doctor voice on.

“John—”

“Here,” he said, pulling Sherlock’s scarf off his neck and squeezing it onto he wound. “Hold that firm,” he instructed, as he took his phone back. He hadn’t stopped to really take Sherlock in, needing to focus on triage first. Finally he took a moment to put his hand to Sherlock’s jaw and look at him, the concern finally in his eyes now that he had sorted the medical necessities.

“Thanks,” Sherlock said, not knowing what else to say.

“I can hear the sirens coming now. You’ll be okay,” John reassured him.

“About all the things I said earlier—”

“Sherlock, it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me. For a second there I thought—”

“I know. I thought you were… you scared me. I told you to stay put!”

“John?” Sherlock asked, to change the subject.

  
“Yes?” John said, looking back as he heard a groan from the foyer area.

“Lean in. Jacket pocket,” Sherlock directed between heavy breaths. John did as he was told and leaned closer, to rummage in his pocket.

“What? Wait… what the hell Sherlock? What are you doing with these?” John said, shocked as he pulled out a set of handcuffs from Sherlock’s jacket pocket. “What else have you got hidden in there?! Are these real?”

“Pinched them from Lestrade when he was annoying.” Sherlock laughed and then groaned as a sharp leg pain interfered in the moment.

John gave him a quick peck on the cheek before taking the cuffs. “You are a strange man sometimes,” he teased.

“I know,” he smiled in return. “Go.”

John put his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder in support and then turned to walk out to the hall way. The mystery man was pulling himself up, using the wall for support, grunting from the pain, the blood from his wound smearing onto the wallpaper. John walked to him slowly, watching.

“Who are you?” John demanded, his eyes steely and cold.

The man looked at him and smiled, without answering. The smile sent a chill down the back of John’s neck. He would have happily put the bullet through this man’s head, but he also needed answers and he wanted the man to be put to justice. Lestrade could squeeze some answers from him first.

“How do you know about us? Who are you working for?!” he yelled, grabbing the man by the scruff of his shirt. The man grabbed onto both of John’s wrists, using them to pull himself upright and look John square in the eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spat in John’s face. He had a thick accent John couldn’t place.

“The pictures! Upstairs. What was your plan?” he yelled.

When the man stared and said nothing, John’s rage built further still. The man started to chuckle in his throat, a realisation in his eyes, about something which John didn’t understand, and it only fuelled John further. He punched the man, hard, so that he fell back to the floor. In closer proximity now, he could see the wound. He’d managed to shoot clean through the shoulder. There was a fair bit of blood.

“Is he going to be okay?” Sherlock called out, his voice sounding strained as he dealt with his own pain.

“If Lestrade gets here soon, he’ll be fine. They’ll take good care of him… at the Yard, that is,” he said pointedly to the man, who was watching him. “But if the detective takes too long I may have to take matters into my own hands and show him what happens when he shoots the love of my life,” he said extra loudly. He heard Sherlock chuckle from the other room at his remark, before sucking in air again in pain.

The man gave him a slightly evil, toothy grin and John couldn’t resist punching him one more time, a little harder to knock him out cold. As he looked at the crumpled body, he noticed a silver ring on the man’s right hand. It was too dark to see detail, but he felt relief at that sight. They may have just found the final piece in the case. John stumbled backwards, panting from the effort and the relief, as he slid down the opposite wall, staying put for a moment to keep an eye on this vile creature. The smile he had given John was laced with malice, with evil and John didn’t like it. Particularly when it was someone he did not recognise.

“You all right?” he asked back to Sherlock, letting his head drop to the wall as he caught his breath.

“Sure. I mean, I’ve had worse,” Sherlock tried to laugh.

John giggled from his spot in the hallway. “Well that’s true, isn’t it,” he agreed.

Silence descended upon the house as the mysterious man lay unconscious at the bottom of the stairs, John sat, leaningagainst the hallway opposite, and Sherlock tried to stem the bleeding of his leg in the front room. In that moment, the shriekingsirens, getting increasingly closer, was the sweetest sound John thought he’d ever heard.

“Sherlock… keep talking so I know you’re okay,” he called out over them.

But before he could hear a reply, chaos descended as police burst through the door and the house lit up with the familiar glow of blue lights flickering through the windows. Something about it was soothing to John. After so many crime scenes, it brought a certain peace, a calmness, despite the reality of the situation.

Lestrade was right behind the officers, entering with authority and taking in the scene. He began directing the team as he dropped down in front of John to check on him.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Never better. This ugly mug caused a bit of trouble though,” he said with bravado.

“Take him,” Lestrade directed his team. It took two officers to handle the cuffed man once he came to.

“Sherlock,” John said, pointing in the direction of the front room, and Lestrade left John’s side to check.

“We’ll need an ambulance,” he shouted to his officers. “He’s out cold, lost a lot of blood.”

“What? Sherlock?!” John called from his place on the floor. He didn’t seem to be able to move, exhaustion and shock finally taking over, despite his fear for Sherlock’s safety.

Donovan walked into the house calmly, just as the officers wrangled and dragged the hostile mystery man out. She held out a hand to help John get up off the floor, in a gesture that was far kinder than John ever gave her credit for being capable of.

“Thanks,” he said, pulling himself up. “There’s some interesting stuff upstairs in the two bedrooms, you’ll want to see,” he advised.

“Seriously, though, you really should have taken up fishing,” she replied.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock leaned back and enjoyed the warm water soaking against his tense muscles. It was awkward, leaving his right leg out of the bath, but it was worth it for the sake of some peace. He had returned home after the bullet wound was stitched up and bandaged. Some fluids and anti-biotics and an hour of rest in the hospital and he was able to be delivered home. Mycroft used his influence to get him released into John’s care once more, although it was likely the hospital was more than happy to oblige after John’s overprotective, overbearing behaviour, and Sherlock himself being fairly unbearable as well.

On arriving home – the two of them completely overwrought – Mary had the wonderful idea to get Sherlock into a bath. It was something he hadn’t enjoyed in a while, not since returning to Baker Street, in fact. John continued tearing up the flat, his anxieties expressed through loud yelling and aggressive re-organising that wasn’t helping anyone relax. Sherlock knew it would take another month to get him to come back down from that ridiculous moral ledge again. It was upsetting after they had finally been starting to make progress. Despite the fact they should feel relieved, with the final piece of the puzzle found, Sherlock essentially off the hook, and the case nearly closed, neither of them were particularly relaxed. Sherlock would be lucky to see outside of 221B again any time soon, if his overprotective John had any say in the matter, and that in itself made him sulk.

But here, in the safety of the bathroom, Sherlock was able to let out a deep sigh of release and enjoy a moment of pause forhimself. His mind palace was busily working on a complex chemistry problem, while simultaneously filing away the past week’s events chronologically – a post-case routine of his, which he always enjoyed. As much as he hated to admit it, Mary had been helpful, and this was her best suggestion yet. Nothing like the release of endorphins through being submerged in hot water. If it weren’t for the vasoconstriction causing his fingers to prune annoyingly, he would have stayed in all night. As it was, the twenty or so minutes he had been in was enough to relax him, although his head had started to spin a little – _probably the water had been a bit too hot_ , he thought to himself absently.

John opened the door a crack and poked his head in.

“Right, well I’m off out to pick up our dinner,” he said, jingling his keys nervously between his fingers, as he stood awkwardly in the doorway. “Will you be ok?”

“Yes I’m fine John, don’t fuss,” Sherlock said, blushing, as he noticed John admiring his long limb from toe to bathwater, his eyes returning to fixate on the bandage just above his knee as it rested on the edge of the tub out of the water.

“You look tired,” John said, his brow furrowing in worry.

“ _S_ _top fussing_ ,” Sherlock repeated, annoyed. “Look, Mary’s helping me, it’s fine.”

“Yes, once he’s out, I’m just going to make him lie down and rest,” Mary said from John’s shoulder as she pushed her way in past him, a pillow in hand, trying to get to the cupboard.

“Are you sure?” John added.

“John. I’ve got this,” Mary said with a smile, leaning forward to place a hand on his arm in reassurance.

“See, John? I’ll be fine,” Sherlock smiled smugly, letting his head drop back again, eyes closed.

“Alright I…” He hesitated, and Sherlock knew he was feeling guilty for leaving. “I won’t be long.”

“Good _b_ _ye_ ,” Sherlock said forcefully, not opening his eyes. Once he heard the downstairs door close, he finally let out a heavy sigh, as Mary found the fresh pillowcase she had been looking for in the cupboard.

“Oh he’s very sweet though, Sherlock. Don’t be too hard on him, he’s just worried about you. How long have you two been together, anyway?” she asked, as she fed the pillow into the fresh fabric. “Sherlock?” she asked when he didn’t answer.

  
“Oh yes, sorry I think I just dozed off for a moment. My head’s a bit… I must have been more tired than I thought… what were you saying?” he opened his eyes to look at her, noting that the room was swimming a bit.

“How long? You and John? I was asking how long…” she prompted, before looking troubled. “Sherlock, shall I help you get out? Perhaps it’s time to settle you in bed?” she said, more concerned now.

“Hmmm,” he hummed in vague agreement as he tried to sit up. “The couch maybe.”

The awkward task of getting out with one leg on the edge was going to require her help, and he suddenly wasn’t sure he could do it, the room starting to tip and sway more now that he had lifted his head. Mary came over, placing the pillow on the closed toilet seat so she could reach out her arms for him to support his weight. She was surprisingly strong for someone of her small stature, and Sherlock supposed that was important for a nurse.

“Careful now, lean into me,” she said as she put her head much closer. She smelled of lavender and a cleanliness that was innately female which Sherlock didn’t get to experience up close very often… and something about the scent was familiar, although his head was too foggy to place it.

“We’ve been together… as flatmates for a couple of years now…” he started to tell her their story, hoping the distraction would help. He grunted at the effort of pushing himself up without slipping, as Mary helped lift him out onto the floor mat. “But as a couple? Not very long really. We’re still finding our feet,” he blushed and let out a half laugh, as he himself found his feet on the bath mat, steadying himself. He had to admit he was grateful that Mary was doing this and not John. He wasn’t ready for John to have to do all the caring and fussing over him. He wanted at least _some_ mystery and magic now that they were together.

Mary moved away to grab his towel for him, all nurse-like and professional, ignoring the fact he was completely naked and in a weakened state. Suddenly he felt extra woozy, grabbing for the side of the tub as his head started to spin again.

“Mary—” he urged, in a moment of panic, needing her help.

“You’re okay, I’ve got you,” she said, reassuring him as she moved quickly to grab on. “Oh, John will be furious, though. Here we were, telling him you were fine,” Mary scolded, wrapping the towel around his back and rubbing it against his skin to dry him off, while keeping him steady. “And look at you. You’re in a right state.”

“Well we don’t need to tell John, do we?” Sherlock said, his voice not as confident as he had pitched for.

“No we don’t,” she said, smiling. She moved the pillow off the toilet, and guided Sherlock over to sit him down there. “Better?” she checked.

“A little,” Sherlock responded. It was worse when he closed his eyes, so he just tried to fix his vision to a spot on the floor tiles while he tried to out-think the spinning.

“You know, I think what you two have is lovely, and I can see that John really cares for you,” she said kindly, as she rolled up her sleeve to lean in and take the plug out. Sherlock could tell she was trying to distract him by changing the subject. “He does tend to let his frustration bleed out a lot, but he loves you. That much is clear.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock hummed, not ready to use words yet.

As she leaned over the bath water, to reach in, Sherlock happened to open his eyes, just in time to see a silver chain fall from the constraints of her buttoned shirt, the weight of the heavy silver band on the chain slipping over the precipice of her cleavage, dangling precariously towards the plug hole, but safe on the long chain. He had noticed before that she wore a chain around her neck, assuming it was some sort of cross, or locket. Something private, to be hidden below her clothes like that, not an ornament to be displayed and talked about. As his eyes focussed better, he realised what it was… a silver ring. _A_ _Celtic_ _knotted silver band._ His eyes lost focus again for a moment and then refocussed as the head-spin abated slightly and there was one more detail he had never noticed before. Her curls were always so thick around her neck and ears, but at this angle, when she leaned right down to pull the plug, her curls parted and the area of skin behind her ear was suddenly in view. And there it was: a tattoo. A bell-shaped arm with a triquetra. Like the others.

He sucked in a breath from shock and Mary looked over to him with worry. “You okay?” she checked.

He gave her a nod to reassure her, grabbing at his leg to pretend it was the wound.

“We’ll get you out to the couch and top up those pain meds, hmmm?” she suggested calmly.

His heart rate picked up as dread started to flood through him. _Could she be_ _…_ _? Had they missed the fact that she_ _…_ _? Was she_ _really_ _part of this?_ His mind was so confused and the heat from the bath on his skin mixed with the cold air in the room was sending his blood whirring through his system, making him feel fainter by the second. His heart was thrumming heavily, trying to pump blood to the right places. He had to try and keep himself calm, and not let her know he had noticed, so he closed his eyes again, which only made his head spin more and he was sure he might pass out.

Mary came over and helped dry him off, the physical contact bringing him back to his body, back to his senses again as he tried to remain composed. She stood him up and helped put his pyjama pants and a dressing gown on, seemingly unaware of the tension in him, the awareness. She gently guided him out of the bathroom and in to the lounge to lie on the sofa. As he lay down, he caught a glimpse of the ring again, lying against her cleavage, the light catching the silver as it nestled there. _Definitely the same design_ _,_ he thought as he closed his eyes to think.

___________________

“Hey Greg, I’m just out picking up some food,” John said as he answered the phone with one hand, the takeaway in the other. “What’s up?”

“I just tried to call Sherlock, but he didn’t answer,” Greg said, worried.

“He was having a bath when I left,” John said, the image of Sherlock in the bath stirring excitement in him again for a moment.

“Right, well that explains it. Never mind, I can tell you anyway. We’ve had to let him go, John.”

“What?” John stopped walking to take the news in.

“Yeah. They stitched the guy up and then let us question him. He’s not the one. He has an alibi for all the others. He’s not our man. Doesn’t even live at that house, apparently. He’s been watering some plants and checking the mail for the occupant. Possibly a partner. He told us very little, before a lawyer showed up and we had to let him go.”

___________________

“Sherlock what are you trying to do?” Mary asked, frustrated, as Sherlock fidgeted around with the cushions looking for his phone. He needed to warn John.

“I… just need to get up, I… I feel just… a bit…”

  
“Sherlock. You really _should_ lie down,” she said concerned, trying to grab at him and make him settle onto the couch again.

“What have you done, Mary?” he asked, finally realising he would have to confront her.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, looking surprised. She seemed so innocent, so unaware.

“My head is… I can’t think straight. I—” he tried to form words, but nothing was working.  
  


“You’ll be okay. It’s probably just the hot water. I always run it too hot. My partner is always telling me off for that, but I like it that way. You’ll feel better if you lie down and let your body temperature go back to—”

“No, no… you’ve _given_ me something… it’s you isn’t it? You’re the one who’s been tampering with my meds,” he suddenly realised. “John told me.”

She looked genuinely confused at Sherlock’s words and he started to doubt his sanity. For a brief moment, he wondered if he was really going crazy.

“Mary, what have you done?” he asked again.

He stood up, wanting to get away from Mary, only to stumble to the ground straight away. Whatever she had given him, it was working fast, and he was losing the ability to think straight and control his limbs now.

“Sherlock, don’t be ridiculous, come on now, you need to lie back down. You’re not well,” she said, calmly.

“No, no. I _know_ you did this. I just can’t… piece together…”

“John was right, you don’t stop do you?” she said, watching him try to pull himself up with the coffee table.

“John—” Sherlock was suddenly confused. _Where_ _i_ _s_ _John_ _?_

“He went out remember?” she said. Her voice seemed so collected as she stood back watching Sherlock fumble.

“John!” he called out, hoping John would hear. His head was swaying from side to side as he stood, steadying himself with the arm of the couch.

Mary tried to grab hold of his arm to help, and he pushed her away.

“No. Don’t, I just need—” he couldn’t even articulate it. _What d_ _o_ _I_ _need?_

“Sherlock, you’re clearly not well. Let me just help you to—” Mary tried, sweetly.

“You might have fooled the others. But I know—”

“Sherlock stop it.” She was so convincing. Even Sherlock was doubting his own thoughts.

He stumbled towards the table, finally spotting his phone there.

“Sherlock—” she said, as he fell forward.

He made a more dramatic swing toward the table than he needed, allowing himself to fall against it, in order to grab the phone and dial John quickly. He leaned heavily on the table with a groan, buying time, covering the phone with some paper so Mary wouldn’t see what he was doing. Hopefully John would be able to listen in. He waited long enough for John to pick up the call. He breathed heavily a few times, hoping to steady his mind just enough to focus. He needed to ensure he said the right things so John would understand.

___________________

John stood still on the path, trying to process the information from Greg. They had the wrong person?

“So wait… but he had the ring. I saw it.” John couldn’t reconcile the news with his memories. He remembered being satisfied by the sight of something silver on the man’s hand. If this was true, if the man he shot was not involved, then what did that mean? Who lived there?

“No. Similar ring, you’re right. Good spotting. But no,” Lestrade informed him.

“Tattoo?”

“Not a match either.”

“Damn it,” John let out on an exasperated sigh.

“Sorry,” Greg said. John could tell he really meant it too. They had all been pinning their hopes on this find neatly closing off the case for them all.  
  
“So, Sherlock got shot in the leg for nothing then?” It was not doing John’s blood pressure any favours.

“So it seems,” Greg responded, unhappily.

“I’ll let Sherlock know when I get back. I’m only a street away. Do we need to come in?” John checked.  
  


“It can wait till the morning. But we’re not done, John. I’m sorry.” Greg sounded equally as disappointed.

“Back to the drawing board?”

“Back to the drawing board.”

“No information on who lives there?” John asked, hopeful for more.

“We’re working on that.”

“Right, well thanks for letting me know, Greg. I’m on my way back home now so… oh hang on, that’s Sherlock on the other line now. I better get that and make sure he’s okay. Call you back once I’m home?”

“Sure, talk later,” Greg said, his voice strained. John could tell that Greg was just as unhappy with the outcome.

“Bye Greg…” he finished as he accepted the incoming call. “Sherlock? What have you forgotten you berk?”

___________________

“I _know_ Mary.” Sherlock spoke slowly and clearly.

“Know what? Sherlock this is ridiculous, honestly,” she started to laugh nervously, still maintaining innocence.

“The ring? Around your neck,” he said, nodding towards her.

Mary looked down to see it against the outside of her shirt, and when she looked up, Sherlock knew he was right. She knew he had seen it now, and her kind, caring and confused façade dropped, as she let out a laugh in earnest. A terrifying all-knowing laugh.

___________________

“Are you there? You git, if you’ve changed your mind, it’s too late!” John yelled into the phone in frustration. “I’m already on my way back now. It’s too late to change your order,” he scoffed in frustration, standing on the spot, listening. He could hear groaning and heavy breathing.

“Sherlock? Are you okay?” John asked, waiting again, still not hearing anything of sense and starting to worry, trying to convince himself it was nothing. “Sherlock? _Sherlock?_ Ugh, have you butt dialled me again? I swear to god. Sherlock?!”

Suddenly he heard familiar voices, speaking: Sherlock’s voice sounded a bit slurred; Mary was sounding concerned. He pressed the phone harder to his ear to try and hear it over the noises in the street.

“Sherlock?” he asked again, beginning to get worried.

His blood ran cold as he heard their conversation and the spine-chilling laughter, from _Mary_.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John stopped on the spot and listened for just a moment before he dropped the takeaway without thinking and ran straight back to Baker Street.


	19. Chapter 19

“We… we trusted you… how could you…?” Sherlock was gasping for air as he began to panic at the loss of control. His head was getting worse, his breathing was becoming more difficult.

“You’ve seen it now – the ring. The tattoo as well I suppose,” she said, casually.

“It doesn’t… look good. You know… all those people?” he asked. “You’re involved?”

“I’ve been watching you for a while now – you boys,” she admitted. “Longer than you know. You really are very sweet together. Why it took you so long, I will never understand, but there you go.” Mary sat herself comfortably on the arm of John’s chair, which only irked Sherlock further as he tried to decide where to go, how to escape this. Should he check John’s room for the gun? Or was it in their room? John was always in charge of the gun. Or should he head for the kitchen and grab a knife? Mary clearly didn’t see him as a threat in this state, so he knew he just had to keep her talking, and John would be there soon.

“You’re part of the network, aren’t you?” he asked.

Mary just smiled and continued to watch as he almost danced around in circles in the middle of the room, trying to make sense of the information in his brain. Trying to decide what course of action to take. He looked to the mantle, remembering his own hunting knife, but remembered vaguely that Mrs Hudson had moved it in her cleaning, and he kept forgetting to ask where she had put it.

“All the other bodies? Were they all part of the network too?” Sherlock needed to know.

“We were the last of Moriarty’s syndicate. The network? That’s what you’re calling it?” she asked, looking impressed. “You did well to track down so many other arms of it, honestly. You went to so much trouble, Sherlock. Through so much pain. A bit tragic that you missed the one arm that was in your own backyard though. Not so clever after all,” she said, giving him a comical pout.

“But… you’ve been here… looking after me… all this time,” Sherlock was genuinely upset by that.

“On and off, yes,” she agreed.

“But Mycroft… _vetted_ everyone,” he said, a little annoyed.

“Yes it seems your brother isn’t as smart as he thinks he is, either,” she said with a sneer and what sounded like pride at her ability to fool him.

Sherlock didn’t trust easily, he didn’t like letting people into his sphere and when he did, he expected a high standard of behaviour. Even though he teased his people mercilessly about their usefulness , their intelligence – or lack thereof – he trusted them and would never waste his time on them if he did not. Mary had seemed genuine. He was as upset by her betrayal as he was by the fact that he hadn’t spotted it in her. His deductions had been off since his return from Serbia and it was unsettling, to say the least.

“You… I…” Sherlock stumbled again as he made a decision, heading towards the stairs to John’s room.

“Oh Sherlock, don’t be ridiculous, there’s no point trying to—”

“You… what _have_ you given me?” he asked again, as his legs gave out and he collapsed just short of the stairs.

“Don’t worry, it won’t kill you. I’d rather do that with my bare hands, if it comes to that. It’s just a sedative. I’ve upped the dose a bit more than usual though,” she chatted casually, as if it was nothing. She stood and stalked slowly towards him, evidently enjoying watching him squirm.

Sherlock started to crawl, with no other option left, to try and protect himself. _No sign of John yet._

“Are you looking for this?” she asked, as she pulled out the gun, waving it closer to his line of sight. _John’s gun_ _._

Sherlock groaned in defeat. Now she had the gun and the advantage.

“There’s _so_ many things you _haven’t_ noticed, Sherlock,” she said, disheartened. “You’ve been so caught up in your love bubble, and this case. I’m disappointed, honestly. For a genius, you really took your time.”

“Tell me… about the tattoos,” he said, pulling himself to sit on the first step, in the hope that being stationary would allow his head to stop spinning long enough to come up with a plan. He leaned his head against the wall to support his weight, sucking in some breaths to try and help steady himself.

“Moriarty loved puzzles. So he gave us each a piece of one. Only four of us. His four closest, most trusted people,” she said, almost sadly. “With him, we made five. The tattoos were a way for us to be bonded together, committed to one another, and to his vision.”

“The rings? Were you all married to each other as well?” Sherlock scoffed.

“In a way, but no. They were the binding piece of the puzzle. The Celtic Cross has four arms and a ring around it to bind them.”

“I didn’t peg Moriarty as being a devout Catholic,” Sherlock said, fascinated. He admitted he loved a good puzzle too. He had always respected how Moriarty’s brain had worked, had always wanted to outsmart him.

“Oh, it’s not Catholic. In the Pagan religion, the Celtic Cross symbolizes the four directions – the elements, the meeting place for all energies. Like representing the four directions of the earth – north, south, east, and west? Or four elements – Earth, fire, water and air.”

“Or the four… horsemen of the apocalypse?” Sherlock joked, not liking the fact that she knew more about it than him.

“Quite so,” she smiled. “It’s all right Sherlock, you can’t always know _everything_.”

He rolled his eyes at her as he tried to get his brain to process the information. “Your perfume.” He suddenly remembered the scent.

“Sorry?” she asked, not knowing what he meant.

“I recognised your perfume,” he commented. “It was you… the club… the knife?”

“Yes, that _was_ fun. I didn’t actually expect the drugs I was giving you to set you off on that little adventure, but I followed you. They were supposed to help you crave a bit more, to lower your inhibitions. You couldn’t resist could you? It didn’t take you long at all. And you were so… _pliable_ ,” she said, with far too much pleasure for his liking.

He groaned at the knowledge that she had been in his space, taking advantage. _In the space that was only meant to be reserved for John._ “But I didn’t… I mean, the body… I…”

“Oh no. Sherlock, I don’t think you really have it in you, do you?” she teased. “Killing someone? I had to sort that part out for you. I was always going to do that. But it was fun to get you to transport the weapon to her room. And you are so delicious,” she said with a smile. “No. You passed out and then I did my job and put the knife back in your pocket. I could have done so much more. You really went to town on yourself. It’s sad, actually. The great Sherlock Holmes.”

“Surely hotel security will have you…”

“She was a hacker, Sherlock. Do keep up. The victim? She arranged it _for_ me, had the cameras hacked so no one would see me _or_ you.”

“You had her… hack her own murder scene?” he asked, suddenly realising this was more involved and darker than he thought.

“It was always part of the plan,” she said calmly. “We were always going to die, like Moriarty. All of us. We just had to make sure you suffered in the process.”

“So does that mean you’re going to die too?” he asked, brightening, feeling hopeful for the first time.

“All in good time. First we need to wait for John.”

___________________

Mycroft and Greg sat together at the bar, looking through the files, talking over scotch, feeling deflated.

“How did we get here?” Greg asked.

“I think you’ve had enough scotch,” Mycroft mused, moving the bottle away from him.

“What? No, that’s not what I mean! I mean, how did we mess this up?” he said, unhappily.

“It’s my fault,” Mycroft admitted.

“How is it _your_ fault?”

Mycroft sighed heavily. It was time to confess. “There was a missing agent – he’d gone off grid. We suspected it could be an internal job, or a double agent and I needed someone to look into it, without… raising any flags.”

“Sherlock,” Greg realised.

“Yes,” he nodded slowly. “The girl got in touch and said she had information.”  
  


“The one from the hotel?” Greg asked, trying to follow his story.

“Yes. Sherlock had been struggling at home and he begged me for work. Promised he was ready, and John was being overly cautious, so I sent him to meet her. It was meant to be simple. I think now she spiked his drink perhaps? Gave him an extra dose of whatever has been affecting him. I didn’t know… didn’t factor that in. She obviously sent him to the club on a mission and asked him to return to her with an update. I suspect he was not in a good way by the time he arrived, and he was either sent to meet the dealer, or he didn’t know what he was doing by that point.”

“You weren’t following him?” Greg was surprised. Mycroft was known for having eyes everywhere.

“I was keeping a distant eye, but someone hacked our system. Probably the girl. I lost contact. He went off script, off task, and before I could catch up… well we know the rest.”

“The person in the hood? At the club?” Greg checked.

“Not sure yet,” Mycroft said, taking another sip of his scotch. It irritated him that he hadn’t worked it all out yet.

“So who was the guy at the house – that John shot? Did you find anything? Is he MI-6 as well?” Greg asked.

“No seems not. No connection, no contact. I think he may be an acquaintance or a partner of whoever lived in that house, but the records of the lease are blocked, sealed.”

“Even from you?”

“Yes, it seems that hacker woman was very good,” Mycroft said with an exasperated sneer.

“So what now?” Greg asked, hopeful that at least one of them had a plan.

Before Mycroft could answer, his phone trilled, and he opened an incoming message.

“It seems my source has found something,” he said as his eyes and fingers scrolled over the information on the screen.

“Anything useful?” Greg asked, trying to wait patiently, sipping at his drink.

“I had them look outside the MI-6 connection, just in case – for any links.”

“And?”

“Moriarty,” he said.

“What?!” Greg sat straighter, suddenly more interested.

“Moriarty had a tattoo, on his chest, it seems. A cross.”

“Celtic cross?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft held the phone up to show a photo, clearly a morgue shot. On his left side, over his heart, was a full Celtic cross, all four arms were bell shaped with trinity knots on the end of each arm. The cross was encircled by a knotted Celtic ring.

He brought the phone back in front of himself, to continue reading the information. “And a lady… not officially contracted by MI-6… name removed from the system – that’s strange…” he commented. “Tattoo behind the ear – triquetra – looks like this could be our fourth person. Known to be close to Moriarty. Not sure how we missed that.”

“Do they have a photo?” Greg asked.

“Hang on, the last file is still loading,” Mycroft said as he waited. “Could be one of our black ops people, deep MI-6? We keep those off the main system, which is why they won’t have come up in the initial searches.”

Suddenly he looked up at Greg, his eyes wide.

“What? What is it?” Greg asked, as he leaned in to look at the screen. “Bloody hell,” he said, as Mary’s face came into view.

“We need to go. Now!” Mycroft said, knocking his stool backwards and storming from the bar.

___________________

John ran straight into Baker Street without thinking. He cursed himself that he didn’t have his gun with him. It had been so long since they had worked a serious case together, he had forgotten that even a trip for takeaways could necessitate his need for a weapon.

“Sherlock? Sherlock?!” he yelled, looking at the empty lounge and running into the kitchen frantically. “I heard you… where the hell…?” his phone rang in his hand and he answered it, hoping it was him.

“Sherlock?” he asked desperately. “Oh Mycroft…” he was disappointed, listening to Mycroft frantically barking at him over the phone. He stopped moving as he tried to listen and focus, his blood pumping loudly in his ears, his heart rate racing out of control. “Yes I’m here… just looking for him now… no, what? I haven’t seen Mary… but Mycroft… no, I don’t know, I don’t…”

  
Before he could get a word out to explain, or process what Mycroft was trying to tell him, he felt something hard strike his head and he began to lose consciousness as his body flopped to the floor.

“Sherlock…” he groaned before everything went black.

___________________

John moaned as he slowly came back to consciousness. The first thing he noticed was the pain in his head. With eyes shut, he put his hand there and felt dampness. Bringing his hand to his face, he opened his eyes just enough to see blood. He had been hit on the head, hard. _Mary!_ His eyes opened quickly and fully as he realised what had happened and suddenly became very alert. He tried to sit up, grumbling at the effort. Mary was sitting on the coffee table, holding a gun, pointing it right at him. _His gun._ He was in the middle of the loungeroom, desperately trying to get his bearings.

“Mary? How—?” he didn’t even know what question to ask first.

“She’s part of the network,” Sherlock’s voice came from down the corridor. John looked over, relieved to hear his voice.

“Sherlock!” he tried to push himself up but the pain in his head was searing. Sherlock was halfway down the corridor, leaning against the wall, collapsed in a heap in apparent defeat on the floor, and looking much worse again.

“You’ve been tampering with his meds,” John said, looking back to Mary angrily.

Mary didn’t say anything, she just sat watching them both.

“Wait, the network? But we got them all… you… we…” John was trying to piece everything together.

“We _thought_ we got them all. There was a secret tier we didn’t know about,” Sherlock said, his voice weak. “Right here in London.”  
  


“Secret tier?” John asked.

“Yes, Moriarty’s top assassins… deep cover, apparently… entrenched in our lives, waiting. Playing the long game. We thought we had them all… but this lot were off the grid. Or _on_ _our_ grid, as it happens, and in full view. We’re supposed to feel… flattered or something,” Sherlock said with defiance, despite his difficulty speaking.

Mary scoffed at that, still not speaking. Still not moving.

“Someone has been slowly picking away at them, though. Was it you Mary? Have you been doing this?” Sherlock asked, hoping she’d tell John more about what was going on.

  
“That was always the mission. Once you found out about us, we couldn’t be allowed to continue,” Mary said coldly. 

“Moriarty is dead. You know that , right? He killed himself,” John said boldly from beside her, as she re-asserted the gun in his direction.

“Yes, of course we know. Moriarty’s death was the trigger. It was his job to initiate the sequence. He died, so then we knew we had to prepare, to be ready. It was my job to remove the others and then take myself out of the game. But not before enacting his plan of destroying you both. You gave us time to make arrangements.”

“This is insane,” John exclaimed, shaking his head before adding his hand to the back of it, to check the bleeding. Mary threw him a small hand towel.

“Here,” she said. “Mrs Hudson will have my head if you bleed all over her rug,” she joked.

John gave her a forced smile of gratitude. Despite attacking him, she still had the sense to help him. It was psychopathic that she was assuming some sort of domestic obligation to Mrs Hudson in the middle of all this. Nevertheless, she was right, so he placed the towel on his head to curtail the bleeding.

“I wasn’t to die until one or _both_ of you were dead first. Preferably you, John,” she said bluntly. “The others knew their time would come. We just had to wait until you returned home. _If_ you made it home.”

John swallowed hard at the bluntness of the statement. “But you’ve taken care of Sherlock… all this time,” John whined, unable to fathom what was happening. He was so hurt that someone close to them would do this. He knew Sherlock would be struggling with that too. Neither of them trusted easily.

“Well, to a point. Obviously the drugs were meant to disorient Sherlock and sew a seed of doubt in the rest of you. Taking care of him allowed me to get to know you both, refine the plan, have access to the medications and his files.”

“So you’re the last one then? In the network? They’re… all gone?” Sherlock asked.

“As far as I know,” Mary said, putting the gun down beside herself on the coffee table, seeing neither of them as a threat in their current state. “He entrusted me with the task of getting this close to you both, because he knew at some point, one of us needed to make you pay, to make you _hurt_ ,” Mary said, with so much vitriol there were tears in her eyes. “Each of us had a task, a purpose along the way. I’ve been watching you since the pool, you know. And it worked out perfectly when you survived the fall, Sherlock,and went on your adventures to try and take everyone down. It gave us time to work on inserting ourselves into position, in case you made it back alive. John was such a hero, carrying you out of there like that. I saw the photos. I was genuinely moved and exceedingly surprised you both made it.”

“Well you’re not winning this round, not on my watch,” John spat angrily back, trying to stand up, stumbling a little as he did. Being reminded of the extraction only fuelled his strength. The fact that they had been watched all along was incensing him.

“You’re hardly in a state to take me down, are you?” she said, looking back over at Sherlock as well. “ _Either_ of you.”

“What have you done to him?” John asked, starting to move, planning to go to Sherlock and check on him.

“John don’t—” Sherlock began, shaking his head, looking scared.

John then tried to surprise Mary, lurching for the gun on the coffee table instead. Not quickly enough though, with his head still pounding and fuzzy. Mary was ready, half standing to meet him as she pulled a knife from her pocket and stabbed John in the side.

“John!” Sherlock shouted from the hallway in shock.

They froze in position for a moment, Mary’s hand pushing the knife in firmly, her head leaning on his. Of all the things John was thinking in that moment, his brain had returned to the house earlier on, and how, as he had searched the bedrooms, there had been two missing knives on the wall. _Two_. This was probably the other one. _Not now John, you’ve just been stabbed,_ he told himself as his brain dealt with the shock.

“Moriarty always knew you would be Sherlock’s downfall,” she whispered into his ear.

John fell to the ground in disbelief, Mary’s words echoing around in his head as he looked over to Sherlock. He was not going to be able to help him. Sherlock needed him, and instead, he was going to die here, unable to do anything about it. He felt so useless and weak and he closed his eyes as the pain finally caught up with his brain, hearing Sherlock cry out in anguish.

___________________

“Right, well that’s you taken care of,” Mary said coldly, stepping over John’s legs to look to Sherlock. “And when they find _me_ dead in your apartment as well, it will seal your fate, Sherlock. Two dead bodies, no witnesses. A drug fuelled jealous rage perhaps?”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” the voice said from the doorway. Mycroft stepped in and fired at Mary’s head, not stopping to ask questions, and her body collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Sherlock froze for a moment, looking to his brother in surprise, before allowing himself to relax in relief against the wall, sighing heavily for a moment, before pulling himself up to scramble forward as best he could to get to John.

“Sherlock?” John groaned, as he opened his eyes and grabbed at his side, the knife still firmly planted under his ribs.

“John!” Sherlock yelled out, half crawling, half running to get to him.

“I don’t feel so good,” he said. The head injury and stab wound, mingled with the shock, all seemed to catch up to him at once. Sherlock couldn’t hold himself up any longer either, as his legs gave way under him. But he held on tight to John.

“I assume you have all the evidence on video brother?” he asked without turning around.

“Of course. You don’t think I removed the cameras just because John wanted privacy?” Mycroft teased.

“No of course not. I knew you wouldn’t,” Sherlock replied.

“And don’t get any ideas. I assure you, any attempt at trying to put me off won’t work, I will simply enjoy it with Gregory over popcorn,” Mycroft baited him.

“Greg…?! Oh for god’s sake!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“What?” Mycroft asked.

“I _knew_ it – you and Lestrade,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Boys—” John groaned from the floor suddenly.

Sherlock returned his attentions to the man in his arms. “John—”

Sherlock was terrified, seeing him like that, the blood soaking into John’s shirt more by the minute, his face pale. 

“Ugh… well that bloody hurt,” John said, with a sigh, clearly trying to fob off how awful he was feeling. He coughed from the effort of talking, and Sherlock moved his hand there to try and remove the knife.

“No! Don’t remove it!” he directed. “Just leave it in. Call an ambulance.”  
  


“They’re already on their way, Gregory’s been making the arrangements,” Mycroft informed them, before going back to the call he was on, no doubt to his people, making preparations already.

Lestrade finally came through the door, his face almost comical in surprise as he took in the scene. “Back-up’s no more than two minutes away – ambulance too,” he said. His eyes raked over Mary’s body and saw Sherlock cradling John awkwardly, the two of them looking worse for wear.

“It’s ok, now. Hold on, John. You’re going to make this,” Sherlock said frantically, trying to keep his senses focussed.

“Sherlock—” John tried.

“Shhh, don’t talk, save your strength John. You’ll be fine,” Sherlock said, his voice betraying his terror, though.

“I know you’re the brains of this operation. I _know_ that. But Sherlock, we’re a team, okay?”

“I know. It’s okay John. I’m fine, just a bit woozy. And you will be okay too,” Sherlock said sternly.

“Good. Because if I don’t make it, and the media reports this as some lover’s tiff, and links me to her, I swear to god—”

Sherlock couldn’t help laughing, despite the tears that were now running down his face.

“Good thing Mrs Hudson is away for the weekend,” Sherlock replied and they both giggled, although John struggled with the effort.

“I love you. You _know_ I love you. And I don’t want you to ever doubt that Sherlock. And no matter what happens I will _always_ love you. It’s always been you,” John said fiercely before closing his eyes.

“John? John!” Sherlock yelled, frightened.

It was the last thing John would have heard as he collapsed in earnest, letting the darkness take him.


	20. Epilogue

“He’s not really going to stay here is he?” Sherlock groaned from his side of the bed, the pillows placed to prop him upright, the newspaper he was reading dropped to his lap in annoyance.

“Sherlock, he’s your brother. He just wants to make sure you’re ok,” John said in irritation, from beside him. John had sustained a nasty head gash as well as the stab wound and was lying flat on his back – the only position his head didn’t pulsate and spin from the concussion, apparently.

The pair had both been put on bed-rest, much to Sherlock’s frustration. Mycroft had set about being a caring older brother, which only caused Sherlock more pain. John seemed to find it amusing, to watch Sherlock suffer through his brother’s awkward attempts to be helpful. He told them he knew the petty feuding between them was almost entirely an act – something about bonding with Mycroft in the lead up to the extraction, as his evidence. Sherlock hadn’t listened after that, unwilling to accept any of it. Although apparently, Mycroft had not only been terrified for Sherlock’s safety, but also blamed himself entirely for allowing Mary access to him. It had happened on _his_ watch, and in Mycroft’s book, that was the worst possible foible, and humiliation. Sherlock certainly found it hard not to blame his brother also.

“Well, _maybe_ he should have vetted his medical staff properly,” he said pointedly to his brother with an eyeroll.

“Sherlock,” John admonished, giving him a gentle slap on his uninjured thigh, as a warning.

“As much as I’d like to stay and watch you two _moan_ at each other in bed…” Mycroft began.

Sherlock sniggered at his error and Mycroft paused from getting out of his chair to process what he had said, before rolling his eyes at his brother’s childish behaviour.

“… I’ll leave you for the time being,” he concluded. He was never good at showing his emotional side. He stood, picking his coat up from where it lay across the arm of the chair. “Detective Lestrade is coming to keep an eye on you both, shortly.”

“Oh great,” Sherlock said, far too brightly.

“He needs to obtain your statements anyway, so he will take the dinner shift, until you’re asleep, and then I will come back and stay upstairs. I’ve got security on the front door just to be safe, but I think we have now officially wiped out all of the network.”

“Not like you to miss an _entire_ branch of the network like that, brother dear. You’re slipping in your old age,” Sherlock goaded. “But good of you to send your… new _friend_ to keep an eye on us.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mycroft replied snootily. “Greg volunteered, as _your_ friend.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed, not convinced, lifting his paper back up to feign disinterest, flicking it into position loudly.

“Enough, you two. Give it a rest,” John demanded, before closing his eyes, his head seemingly bothering him again. “We’ll be fine. Thank you, Mycroft,” he said politely, with his eyes still closed.

Mycroft gave John a nod of respect, despite him not being able to see it, before walking out of the room. Sherlock looked to John, clearly waiting for a telling off, but John just lay still, and silent.

“You’re adorable when you’re angry,” Sherlock finally said, unable to hide his affection.

“Shut up,” John quipped, but he clearly couldn’t help the smile creeping onto his lips. “Now, can I get some rest please?”

“Fine,” Sherlock smiled to himself. “But if you think I’m going to let Lestrade be in charge of the cooking—”

“Okay, we’ll order in, just… sshhh.”

“Did you just—”

John didn’t say another word, or move his body, other than to lift his pointer finger to silence Sherlock, without a sideways glance. Sherlock replied by ruffling the paper and going back to reading.

He was offended at being shushed, but the dramatic overreaction was lost on John, who refused to look in his direction.

Reading through the paper was tedious. Always the same dribble, which was why he usually let John check the headlines. John was able to spot the human element, figure out what would interest Sherlock just enough.

“Hang on a minute…” he said, sitting a little straighter, as an article caught his eye.

“What?” John asked, the tone of Sherlock’s voice catching his attention, forcing him to open his eyes.

“Where did you say your uncle was from?” he asked urgently, keeping his eyes fixed on the paper.  
  
“I didn’t…” John replied, waiting for more information. Sherlock looked over at him,expecting an answer.

“Aberdeen?” John offered.

“Yes, that’s what I thought,” Sherlock said knowingly.  
  
“How did you…” John pushed himself up on his elbows, squinting from the pain, but wanting to be involved in the case discussion. “Never mind. Go on?”

“I think I might have found us a case,” Sherlock said, pulling the blankets back and swinging his legs out excitedly.

“Sherlock Holmes, you get yourself back into bed! We are _not_ travelling to Scotland. Not today,” John said with finality.

“John—”

“You heard me. That is _final_.” John spoke in such a serious tone, that Sherlock slid his legs back in and replaced the sheets, with sheepishness.

“Now… let me sleep in peace,” John said, relaxing back down, his voice returning to a calmer tone. “Don’t make me confiscate that newspaper.”

Sherlock let out a sigh of frustration. Boredom was such a hindrance.

“Neither of us is in a state to be running off on cases, and you should know better, after the week we’ve just had,” he said, watching Sherlock’s reaction carefully.

Sherlock made no attempt to hide his pout.

“Fine. Come here, then,” John said, holding an arm out.

Sherlock was delighted as John allowed him to scuttle over the mattress and snuggle gently into the crook of his neck. John adjusted the curls, so they didn’t tickle his nose, and let out a sigh.

“Better?” he asked.

“Much,” Sherlock admitted.

They lay there together for almost a whole minute before John’s brain caught up. “Did you just make that up, to get me to admit where my family is from? _And_ to get me to snuggle?” he asked, frustrated.

“I admit to nothing,” Sherlock said with a contented smile, snuggling further into John.

“You really are a piece of work, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Obviously,” he said with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to my lovely beta and editor @alto_mumma.  
> Also to @elldotsee and @bluebuell33 for their advice and support and @J_Baillier for her thoughtful medical advice, once again.


End file.
